The Traitor
by Wanderer of the Roads
Summary: Complete She is a Briton. She has betrayed hundreds of lives to live one of a traitor’s. She is the Saxon army’s spy and scout. When she is captured by the Knights, will she be able to learn how to trust and be trusted again?
1. The Beginning of the Betrayal

Welcome to yet another King Arthur fanfiction of mine! This idea struck me one night when I was lying on my bed, and I thought it's an original plot, so here's the story: The Traitor.

Full Summary: She is a Briton. She has betrayed hundreds of lives to live one of a traitor's since the day she lost those dearest to her. She is the Saxon army's spy and scout, a reluctant betrayer of her people, but a traitor nonetheless. When she is captured by the Knights of the Round Table, will she be able to learn how to trust and be trusted again? Or has she gone too far to turn back?

This story won't be too long, maybe only ten something chapters. But I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.

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Chapter 1: The Beginning of the Betrayal

_November, 451 A.D.; Northern Britain_

"Catch me, George! Catch me!" shrieked Francesca, the third child of the Langridge family. Her silky blonde hair billowed behind her as she dashed into the caves, her voice echoing in the hollow area.

"Catch me too, George!" bellowed Neville cheekily, following his twin into the caves.

"I'm coming!" yelled George, the second eldest in the family. He was thirteen years old and was growing to be a fine young man, with handsome features from his father, Stratford. His brown eyes were shining with amusement as he crept into the cave, hoping to surprise his siblings who were three years younger than him.

"Gail."

Abigail turned her attention from her running siblings and smiled at Dolores, the baby of the family. She was only three years old, but she was solemn little thing.

"Look," she held up a little hand which was clutching a big seashell.

"Oh, a seashell," cooed Abigail tenderly. "Where did you find it?"

Dolores pointed to where their parents were working. "Mama gived it to me."

"Gave, silly," smiled the older sister, standing up from the rock she was sitting on. "Shall we go and find some more shells?"

Dolores nodded seriously and took her hand. "There are many shells in the water."

Stratford and Helen were collecting stones by the water for building a fireplace. Winter was coming, and they looked forward to the warm, cozy moments in store for them, when they crowded around the would-be fireplace in their little cottage, sharing meat pies and stories.

"Dolores!" cried Stratford fondly when he saw his children walking towards him. "Are you having fun?"

The little girl nodded without smiling. "Gail and I are going to find shells."

"That's a good girl," he grinned and gave Dolores a pat on her head. Then he turned to his eldest daughter, "Have the twins gotten into trouble yet?"

Just then there was a piercing scream and a splash of water. Abigail laughed and said, "It seems that they have."

Helen laughed too, putting a large stone into one of the two straw baskets they brought along, which was half-filled with jet black stones of different sizes.

"Are you having a good time?" she asked Abigail in her soothing, deep voice.

She nodded. "It's always good to be by the sea."

"Yes, its is," agreed Stratford, inspecting a stone before placing it in his basket.

"Do you need help?" asked Abigail.

Helen shook her head. "You go and have fun. Besides, our Dolores wants to collect some shells, doesn't she?" she bent down and gave her youngest daughter a peck on her cheek.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dolores, I forgot," apologized Abigail, smiling at her scowling sibling.

"Let's go," she said, tugging on her sleeve.

Abigail helped Dolores fold up her sleeves and remove her shoes before she led her into the shallow water. It was chilling, but their skin got used to the cold temperature soon. The waves were lapping gently onto their bare feet, and Abigail felt at peace.

"Look!" came the shout of Francesca from the caves.

The family looked up and gazed at the direction where the girl was pointing, straight into the mist of the sea. Abigail could not see anything at first, but then she saw several black objects sailing out of the white fog.

"Ships!" cried Neville excitedly, jumping up and down, waving his hand.

Abigail could not recall seeing any ships take anchor near their village before, and she could not help worrying about this unusual phenomenon. She glanced at her mother, who was frowning with doubt. Her father was curious though, wading into the water to get a better look.

Suddenly, there was a ear-splitting scream. Abigail whipped around and saw Francesca fall onto her back, an arrow protruding from her chest, before her lifeless body burst into flames.

A scream escaped Abigail's mouth and another arrow hit Neville, and he too fell dead at once.

"Gail! Run!" her father's terrified yell broke through Abigail's shocked mind, and she immediately grabbed Dolores' small hand in hers and ran towards the cover of trees. George joined them, but he stumbled just before they reached the bushes.

"George!" screamed Abigail, stopping abruptly.

"Gail, we have to go," said Dolores calmly in a small voice.

She tore her gaze from George's burning corpse, and rushed into the safety of the thick bushes. She wrapped her arms around Dolores and the little girl silently leant on her. Abigail was in an extreme state of shock and terror. She was shaking all over, and she felt cold as if snow was piling on her back.

"Gail."

Abigail looked down at her baby sister, who was staring at her with her blue eyes steadily.

"Where is mama and papa?" she asked in a whisper.

She looked through the leaves of the bushes they were hiding behind, and saw five smoldering bodies lying on the beach. The ships were very near now. She could see men on them, clothed in black, some bearing blazing torches.

"They are gone, Dolores," answered Abigail quietly, struggling to keep her voice from shaking.

She glanced at the ships again. They were only a few feet from the shore.

"Dolores, listen to me," Abigail said, pushing the little girl to her feet. "You must go back to the village now, run as fast as you can, and go to Mrs. Hicks. Tell her danger is coming, and you must run away with her. You understand?"

Dolores nodded solemnly, and said, "Yes, Gail. Be careful."

Abigail swallowed a sob and said, "Go."

She watched Dolores' small figure disappear into the trees and turned to look at the beach again. The ships had stopped at the shore, and strong-built men were jumping onto the sand. She watched the men who killed her family tread over their bodies as if they were mere dust.

A large man, clearly their leader, clad in armor with animal skin draped over his shoulders, was surveying the beach. Abigail stopped breathing as his eyes stopped at her hiding place, and she resisted the urge to run. She must stay and buy time. She hoped that Dolores had arrived and that her people were fleeing.

Abigail shook more violently with each step the man took towards her, and she was on the brim of tears as the ugly man stared down at her. His face was mapped with scars, and his hair was messy like wild grass.

"What have we here?" he said loudly, an evil smile unfolding on his face.

"You killed my family," snarled Abigail, her anger momentarily overtaking her fear.

"No, I didn't. My fine archers did," he laughed cruelly, and grabbed Abigail by her hair, pulling her on her feet. "Where is the nearest village?" he yelled into her ear.

Abigail stayed silent, and she got a sound slap across her face.

"Where is the nearest village?" he yelled again.

She shook her head defiantly. She could not tell him. She would not tell him.

The man angrily threw her to the ground and kicked her hard in her stomach. She bit her lower lip, refusing to show her pain.

"Tell me!" he bellowed, grabbing her hair and pulled it violently.

"No!" she screamed at him, venting her pain through her voice.

The man glared at him, then his face relaxed to a smile.

"Well then," he grinned wickedly and unsheathed his sword. "I suppose I can't change your mind?"

Abigail glared at the man, dread bubbling in her heart. She did not want to die under the sword of the man who killed her family.

Then she felt weakness. She was afraid to die. She did not want to die. She wanted to live.

"Don't kill me!" she shrieked as the sword swung towards her body.

Its tip stopped at her neck, and its wielder laughed harshly. "Someone doesn't want to die, huh?"

A roar of scorning laughter erupted behind him, and a tear trickled down her face.

The man knelt down beside her, and asked in a low and dangerous tone, "Why shouldn't I kill you?"

She looked at the man in the eye, but did not feel the courage she was looking for. All she felt was intimidation. She stammered, "I- I know the roads well. I can read and draw maps. I can track and I can hunt. I can ride horses."

"Oh," the man nodded with mock admiration. "She is a scout! Then can you tell me which part of Britain are we in?"

"The Northern part," she replied promptly.

"North?" the man raised his eyebrows.

Abigail nodded. "North. Fourteen leagues North of Hadrian's Wall."

The man growled and stood up, shouting at a man who had black hair and a hawk on his shoulder.

"You told me you would get me to the South!" he yelled furiously.

The man cowered a little, and said, "I thought we were following the right direction…"

"Well, we haven't, have we?" the leader barked, then without warning, he pulled a dagger from his boot and threw it straight at the man's chest.

He fell backwards from the force of the throw, and his hawk squawked, flying from his shoulder. There was a silence, then the leader turned to Abigail again, who was sobbing to have witnessed such a cold-blooded murder.

"You don't want to die like him, do you?" he whispered.

Abigail shook her head.

"He was my scout. You will take his place now," he said.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

"Cynric!" the man yelled.

A young man whose face was similar to the man stepped out of the crowd which had gathered on the beach. He had a long beard on his chin, but his head was bare.

"Yes father," he said.

"You take your infantry to the village, this…" he pointed at Abigail.

"Abigail," she replied.

"Abigail will take you there," he finished, smiling.

"On your feet," ordered Cynric, and she scrambled clumsily on her legs, which felt heavy. "Men!"

A group of about twenty men stepped forward on his word, and Cynric pushed Abigail forward, causing her to stumble.

"No mischief," Cynric's father warned in a low voice.

She meekly nodded and led the way into the forest slowly, hoping that the villagers had fled.

"Faster!" yelled Cynric, giving her a rough push again.

Abigail broke into a jog, and the men followed behind. Dread clutched her heart as she saw her village loom into sight, a neat little community with clean cottages and friendly Britons. She was dismayed when she saw familiar figures still at work in their farms, and prayed that they would run away now.

"Stay here," Cynric said and pulled her behind a tree. "While we massacre your people." He laughed evilly and the man echoed the gesture, breaking into a run and sounded a thunderous battle cry.

Abigail shut her eyes and slid to a crouch, sobbing her heart out. There were horrible cries of agony and screams of terror, and she heard the slice of swords and the thud of arrows. There was the smell of burnt flesh and wood.

Soon the village was silent, and she heard Cynric calling for her. She wiped away her tears and stood up shakily, then walked to her village.

It was now burning, and corpses were scattered everywhere. She saw her family's cottage which was nothing but a mess of burnt wood and debris. Her eyes wandered over the wretched sight, and stopped at the body of a little girl and an elderly woman.

"Dolores!" she cried and ran over to her little sister's body.

"Dolores!" she cried again, tears streaming down her cheek and onto her sister's lifeless face, which was ashen white. Blood crusted on her chest, staining her favourite white dress. Abigail ran a hand through her hair and over her darling face, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Get up."

Abigail lifted her head and glared fiercely at Cynric.

"You killed her!" she screamed suddenly, leaping up and raked her fingernails across his face.

He yelped in pain and punched her in the stomach, causing her to fall back onto the ground. He kicked her a few times, shouting insults at her, while nursing the bleeding lines on his face.

"Kill her!" he roared in fury.

Again, weakness and the desire to live overpowered her. She let out a pathetic cry and crawled onto her knees, shaking her head. "Don't!"

Cynric grabbed the collar of her dress and forced her on her feet. "Then there will be no acts of disobedience from this minute, you understand?" he hissed into her ear, his hand roaming boldly over her body.

She bit her lip, then nodded. He released her and she fell back onto her knees, right in front of Dolores' body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears once again falling from her eyes.


	2. First Meeting

Chapter 2: First Meeting

_Winter, 452 A.D._

Tristan stared impassively at the villagers of Marius' fort. They moved too slow, they would never make it. He then glanced at Arthur, who was shouting instructions at the peasants. He insisted to save everyone. As always.

There was a piercing shriek, which belonged to only one hawk. He tilted his head skywards and smiled almost unnoticeably at his friend. She gracefully glided through the snowflakes falling from the sky, and landed on his outstretched hand.

"Where are they?" he murmured, feeding her a piece of raw meat.

Her sharp eyes penetrated into his, and he sensed urgency. Just then, Tristan picked up the distant noise of drums. Saxon drums.

A hush descended on the entire village, amplifying the volume of the dreaded thuds. Tristan locked eyes with Lancelot, who was obviously against bringing the villagers along.

"Arthur."

The call of Galahad brought Tristan's attention to their commander. He was striding across the grounds towards a desolate stone building that had neither windows nor doors. It had been walled up, he could see the hint of fresh paste under a rectangle of new rocks.

Tristan nudged his dappled grey gently, and he trotted over to the stone building along with the others. Lancelot had already reached Arthur, desperate to dissuade his best friend from doing what they all knew he would do.

"Arthur, we don't have time," he said, voicing anxiety as well as annoyance.

Arthur ignored Lancelot, and turned to Dagonet, giving him a curt nod. The giant leapt off his mare and detached his axe from its strap, and strode over to the building. With a mighty heave, he brought his weapon down on the rocks, which fell instantly to his strong stroke. A few Roman guards ran over, waving their hands over their heads.

"No! Stop it!" said one, flinging himself at Dagonet.

Arthur unsheathed Excalibur and placed it menacingly on the man's neck in one fluid movement. "Move out of the way," he snarled.

The Roman nodded and backed away, trembling. Marius noticed the commotion and hobbled over, weighted under thick and rich furs.

"What are you doing?" he cried. Bors spurred his horse forward and blocked the plump man's way, his face bearing a murderous look.

"Move one step further, and I'll kill you," Tristan heard him hiss. He smirked and turned his sight back to the door, which was now open with one last blow of Dagonet's axe.

Arthur, Dagonet, Gawain and Lancelot went inside, leaving the other three outside to keep an eye on the aggravated Romans.

"I can't see why he must do this," grumbled Galahad, evidently unnerved by the growing sound of Saxon drums.

Tristan did not reply, but eyed an idle hawk hovering above the trees from the corner of his eye.

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Abigail gazed intently at the mounted men outside the stone building. She knew that they were the legendary knights of the Round Table, and she knew that she had to be careful.

She saw the man on the dappled grey staring at her hawk, the hawk that was given to her after its master was killed on the beach that fateful day. She cringed at the memory. She had witnessed many slaughters and massacres after that day, but the first sight of a man falling dead still plagued to her in dreams.

She had endured so much pain after that day the Saxons came. Fortunately, Cerdic made it clear that they would not "taint" their Saxon blood with any other tribe's. It was the only thing Abigail did not disdain about the man.

She had laid there on the tree for about an hour, watching the pathetically slow movement of the villagers. She smirked. The Saxons would have no trouble overrunning them, and that would happen very soon. The Commander of the Knights, the legendary Arthur, had obviously commanded the people to head South. Over perilous mountains, and through thick woods until they reached the safety of Hadrian's Wall.

Abigail knew the trails well. She had been scouting for a year in the Northern territory under the command of Cerdic. She knew that the journey would kill many of the peasants with the cold, merciless weather. She smirked again. Another advantage to the Saxons.

Serving under the brutal Saxons had made her immune to violence, and to death, as long as it did not involve her. She was not the timid girl she was a year ago, she was a woman now. A woman who had gone through excruciating pain and experience which had twisted her formerly gentle temperament to that of a heartless warrior's. She had learned how to use a bow and wield a sword, and how to survive in a world of savages. She knew that she had to fight to live, and she would gladly kill any other to stay alive.

Shame clouded her heart for a second, but she quickly shook it off. Fate had been unkind to her, and she had no choice. _It was not her fault_.

Sudden chaos in the village brought her out of her trance. She squinted, and saw a fat man, clearly the landlord, fussing around. She decided that it was time to act.

Carefully, she climbed down from the tree and dusted her only dress- the one she had worn to the beach almost year ago. It was a bit thin for the current weather, but it should do the trick. She ducked low, darting agilely between leaves and branches, till she had gotten to the village. When nobody was looking, she slipped out of the shadows of the forest and pulled a worried face. She approached an elderly and volunteered to take his heavy bag, which he gladly accepted. Then she made an excuse to return to the village, and ran to the crowd which had gathered around the stone building.

She could not see what was going on, since a large mob had assembled, but she caught sight of the scout, who was standing apart from the crowd, staring at her.

She could see his face clearly now. It was tanned, covered by scars and tattoos, almost hidden behind random, unruly braids. His sat with a natural grace on the saddle, his hawk perched on one side of his strong shoulders. His gaze was piercing, and she returned it, while making her way to him.

"Sir, what way are we supposed to go?" she asked with a fake Roman accent.

"South," came the brief answer.

"But there are mountains, I don't think my father will make it," she lied, faking a worried face.

"I can't do anything about it," he replied and wheeled his horse away.

Abigail stared at his back, then retreated a fair distance before bounding into the protection of bushes again. She found her bundle of clothes and weapons, and quickly changed, her hands clumsy and freezing. Then she whistled gently, and a bay horse appeared from its hiding place. He was taken from one of the villages they had raided, and she knew that it would be slaughtered and thrown aside when it had done its job.

Just like her.

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Hello! Thank you for SEVEN reviews! Wow, this is like, totally unexpected :D I hope you liked this chapter. It's rather short, but I'm quite happy with it. I love writing about first meetings lol. I won't be updating for a few days with a camp and school coming up, but I'll write as soon as I can!

Shout-outs to my lovely reviewers before I go :D

GalahadsFallenKnight0: Hey! Glad you liked the beginning! Hehe, I won't tell you the pairing yet, but I think it's already getting obvious… lol.

Mysticpig: I know! I had such a hard time writing this chapter, I'm not used to killing (literally) anyone. I hope you liked this chapter!

KnightMaiden: Hmm? What's wrong with Galahad? xD Lol, don't worry, rambling is love!

AngelTears1328: Glad you think it's interesting! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Andysprettylady: Aw, thanks a lot!

Kasora: -hands tissue- Aw, don't cry lol! Yeah, she falls in love with a knight, but lust? I'm not sure lol, but if she does, remember to tell me ;)

HyperSquishy: Hehe, I'm cold-blooded, aren't I? xD Hope you liked the chapter!


	3. Mistakes

Chapter 3: Mistakes

Tristan was deep in thought. When he did so, everything happening around him was blocked out, and it was a handy skill. He needed to concentrate now.

He thought of the woman- the girl, rather, she hardly looked like a woman. She was a pretty thing, with typical long brown hair but piercing blue eyes. They were exceptional eyes. They were very clear, resembling a calm, clean lake, and it seemed that you could see the depths of her soul through the blue. But water could be deceptive. You never know how deep it was until you walk into it. Strangely, Tristan was able to relate this to her eyes. They seemed, _felt_ deceptive. He sensed dishonesty in her.

Why? She was a village girl, there was no doubt about that. There was none other she could be. Her dress was a bit different to those he saw other women wear, cleaner and a bit too flimsy for the blistering cold. But the villagers were poor, and most did not have enough clothing to defend themselves against the harsh journey ahead. Many would die, but it would be better to die in the cold than in the hands of Saxons.

Saxons. An entire army was coming from the north, headed straight for the fort. He had seen them with his own eyes. A few more hours and they would be here, and nothing would be left but ashes and corpses.

A small feeling of panic was aroused in his heart. He shook his head and turned his thoughts back to the girl. What about her? What had she said?

_'But there are mountains, my father will not make it.'_

There was something wrong here. These words kept tugging at his heart, as if teasing him. He furrowed his brow in concentration. The answer was there in his head, he could feel it, he just could not put a finger on it.

"Stop what you're doing!"

The sudden yell disturbed Tristan's silent contemplation. His eyes focused to see the Roman barging into the scene, flinging an accusing finger at Arthur. A young woman, badly beaten and underfed, was lying on the ground, the Roman wife by her side. Dagonet had a weak boy in his arms, who looked surprisingly unafraid of the giant.

Arthur was now yelling at the Roman, furious. But the scout was in no mood for drama, with his head full and the Saxons just on their tail. Once again, he shut out all surrounding noises. He subconsciously swept his gaze across the white trees behind them, and stopped at a suspicious hole in a mass of bushes.

He nudged his horse into a canter and dismounted at the edge of the woods. He knelt down and studied the broken branches and tracks that had not been swept away by the wind in the protection of the trees. He walked inside the cover of trees and picked out a line of light tracks in the snow. It stopped at a tree, and he looked up at its tall branches. A broad branch sat at a convenient height, and would have bore a person easily. He ran a hand over the trunk, and felt unnatural bumps under his sensitive fingers.

He tilted his head skywards again. He had seen the hawk hovering about here. He took a step forward and felt something crunch under his feet which sounded like a dry leaf. He brushed away a thin layer of snow to reveal a piece of torn parchment. He picked it up and frowned at a smudge of ink. He brought it close to his eyes then away, trying to make out the vague shape of a word.

A brief and precious ray of afternoon sunlight broke through the thick clouds, and Tristan quickly lifted the piece of paper to the light. The illumination disclosed Saxon symbols, and a single but important word- South.

Arthur had his sword on the Roman's neck when Tristan galloped back to his side, breathing heavily.

"Arthur!" he cried, reining his horse to a halt.

"What is it?" he asked, lifting Excalibur from the man's neck.

"We can't head South," said Tristan urgently. "We have to go into the mountains in the East."

"What?" Arthur was at a loss of what to say, mostly at the news but partly at the scout's unusual alarm.

"Just get them to the East, I'll catch up with you," Tristan said and galloped off to rescue the villagers who had already headed South, and possibly to their deaths.

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Abigail picked her path carefully, steering her horse skillfully to avoid sharp branches and pointed stones emerging from the snow. She had sent the message to Cedric about half an hour ago, and he should have received it by now.

It was the Saxons' plan to destroy the Roman fort, then Cynric would lead his light (and useless) infantry to cut off the Romans' escape to the South so as to get the ransom to cover the costs of the campaign. On the other hand, Cedric would lead the main army straight towards Badon Hill, provided that they did not lose their way in the process.

Cynric's infantry would move along a trail Abigail had found a few days ago, a shortcut that would lead them directly to a main southern road. It would be easy to trap and capture the precious Roman family, with thick woods on either side, providing no means of escape. The only problem was Arthur and his knights, but it should not prove to be too difficult. They _were_ only seven to two hundred after all.

The landscape was sloping downhill slightly, and she reined her horse to a halt. She stared down at the flatland and frowned. Where were the mountains? She could see a group of villagers huddled together against the fierce winds some distance ahead of her, but she could see no mountains.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she might have made a mistake. Panicking, she dismounted her horse and climbed shakily onto the nearest tree, and gazed down the wide, flat path southwards. Then she looked to the East, and saw a range of high mountains, and a group of small moving black dots.

She gasped exasperatedly and slapped herself on the forehead. She had made a mistake. A _huge_ mistake. She had mistaken East for South.

_'But there are mountains, my father will not make it.'_

The Sarmatian scout's intelligent face floated into her mind. He would realize her mistake. She had given the Saxons' plan away, and she would pay for it.

Just then, a galloping grey horse loomed into sight. Abigail recognized it as the scout's horse. Indeed, she saw his rugged figure hunched over the stallion's neck as they neared, and she watched as they dashed ahead to the villagers.

She got off the tree quietly and mounted her horse. She had to report to the Saxons about her blunder now, she silently hoped that it would not be too painful.

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Hey! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! I hope it isn't too confusing, Abigail's blunder is actually MY blunder, I thought they escaped to the south in the movie lol. I hope it adds a twist to the plot! And a bit more of Tristan this chapter, I hope he sounds like the awesome scout he is.

Thanks for another seven reviews! This is really encouraging :D Thanks a lot everyone! Here are some shout-outs for you:

Punk monkey: I'm glad you like this story! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

KnightMaiden: Thanks for your sweet comments! -hugs- Lol, I know, he is THE trouble maker xD

BornWithAFever: I'm glad you think it's good! Hope you liked the update!

BillieJoe is effin sexy0: Lol don't worry, maybe it wasn't THAT obvious yet xD It will be obvious soon. Yup, I promise! Hehe, glad school wasn't that bad! School starts for me tomorrow, I'm praying it's not going to be hell! Thanks for reviewing!

Mysticpig: Yes, I will change the story, it'll be sooo boring if I follow the same story line, don't you think so:) I hope you liked ch.3!

Kasora: Aww -pats back and hands tissues- I'm glad you think it's beautiful! It's quite a compliment:D Lol, remember to tell me! Ah, I know, Saxons SUCK. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

BeautifulFirestone: Hmm, sorry that you don't like the name. I picked it out from a list of British names in the Victorian period and I thought it stands out. Maybe you can get used to it:)

School starts for me tomorrow, but I think I can update this weekend. I really enjoy writing this story lol! Please review and I'll write faster xD Bye!


	4. Who Are You

Chapter 4: Who Are You

It was almost dawn when the whole Saxon army was gathered at the wide road that led southwards towards Hadrian Wall. The reason of the delay was that Cynric's infantry took a wrong turn which led them further north instead of south, costing Abigail a few hours before she tracked them down. Cerdic was not happy about the delay, Abigail only knew too well. She gingerly ran a finger over a fresh bruise on her jawbone, wincing as a sharp pain seared through her skin.

"How far behind are we?" asked Cerdic gruffly as Abigail produced a worn map the Saxons had found in the estate before burning it down together with the peasants who foolishly chose to stay.

She pointed to a snaking line on the map, and said, "We are here." Then she traced backwards on the trail and up another lined with symbols of mountains on both sides. She stopped halfway up the trail.

"The caravan is slow. They should be here, at the quickest pace," she explained. Then she moved her finger to a dark band of dots. "They might take shelter in these woods."

"How long?" he asked, staring at the map thoughtfully.

"About a day if we camp tonight- today," she glanced at the commander.

She was exhausted, cold and hungry. She knew that Cerdic could go on for miles without stopping, and so could his men. But she was a woman, and their scout, who covered more ground than anyone of them daily. She dearly hoped that she would be allowed a few hours' rest, or she would collapse from fatigue.

"We stop for two hours," announced Cerdic after a moment. "This road takes us to Hadrian's Wall?"

Abigail nodded. "It will take five days, if you do not camp. The trail runs inland, cutting through forests."

"Is it difficult to track?"

She shook her head. "It is a frequently used track for merchants coming from the sea."

Cerdic nodded. After a while, he stood up and said, "You will lead Cynric's infantry into the mountains and overtake the caravan. Hold the Romans hostage and kill all others. I go south to the Wall."

Abigail bowed low. "Yes, sir."

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Tristan rode at the head of the line, his keen scouting instincts razor sharp. It was the second day of their journey, and they were moving too slow. The snowstorm that had been haunting them since morning had killed a few of the sick and elderly, and he grimly thought that a handful more would fall victim to the merciless cold before they stopped for the night.

He looked over his shoulder at the villagers, struggling against the gusting winds, huddled in their pitiful rags. Arthur was riding beside the cart which held the two survivors of the torture chamber, talking with the girl. She was a Woad, Tristan knew it. He saw the tattoos on her arm, before she hastily covered them up. He decided not to expose her identity. If Arthur was determined to save her, so be it. It would simple make the matter more complicated if the other men intervene, which they would, if they knew that she was one of their enemy's people.

He looked up at the sky, which was a piece of grey. It suggested no clue to what time it was, but Tristan knew that darkness would fall in a few hours, and they must find somewhere to shield themselves from an even harsher night, if they intended to save the villagers.

The scout nudged his horse and wheeled him around, headed for Arthur, who was still by the cart, his face set in a scowl. The girl was conversing with him heatedly, and Dagonet, driving the cart, kept his eyes on the road ahead.

Arthur looked away from the Woad as Tristan came near, and kicked his horse forward to meet him.

"What is it?" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

"We must move faster if we are to find shelter tonight," said Tristan quietly.

Arthur lifted his head and swept his gaze across the bundle of villagers trudging laboriously in the knee-deep snow. He sighed heavily.

"Where is the nearest shelter?" he asked.

"We need to go up another hill, steeper than what we encountered yesterday, about an hour from where we are now. There is a small cluster of trees at the top, we can take shelter there," answered Tristan.

"Where we camped on our journey here?" asked Arthur.

Tristan nodded, and waited for an answer. Taking another glance at the villagers, Arthur said, "Tell the villagers to go faster."

Tristan gave a curt nod and spurred his mount to a canter, passing the message to Gawain, who was riding on his own near the cart.

"These people need to rest, not going faster," argued Gawain.

Tristan replied in a flat voice, "Those are my orders. And they will freeze to death if they don't move."

Gawain frowned, then urged his horse into a canter, shouting at the villagers as he went. Tristan followed and spotted Ganis, the boy who had volunteered to gather the peasants together at the fort.

"When do we rest?" he asked, his voice cracked and trembling with cold.

"When we reach the woods," replied Tristan.

"How far away are we?"

"Five hours."

Ganis stared at him, then said in despair, "Then we'll never make it."

Tristan looked at the hunched backs of the peasants and shook his head, talking mostly to himself, "I never said they would."

--------------

Abigail stopped when she felt something under her feet, and knelt down, digging into the snow. She stopped abruptly when a stone, white face stared up at her lifelessly.

It was the sixth body they had came across that night, and she knew that they were many more buried in the suffocating snow.

"They can't be too far away," commented Cynric, comfortably astride his "battle" horse.

"No, only six hours at most, not to mention that fact that they might have made camp," agreed Abigail, remounting her horse.

"Then let's close the distance," said Cynric authoritatively, kicking his horse hard and the creature jerked forward, causing the Saxon to bump rather unceremoniously for a few moments before he regained his balance.

Abigail inwardly laughed at him. He knew nothing about horses, swords or battles. He stood by his father's side like a dog at its master's feet, trying to look and sound commanding, when everyone knew he was weak and did not bear one bit of respect for him. She wondered if he even had the wits to know that.

"Forward! Forward!" shouted Cynric's bodyguards, who rode in a protective formation about him.

The two hundred Saxons of Cynric's light infantry marched forward in tight rows, their heads bowed down to avoid the whipping winds. Abigail gave her horse a gentle nudge, and he obediently trotted forward. She had grown fond of the bay, and she patted him on the neck. She knew that he was tired, but they had no choice. They had to keep moving if they wanted to catch up with the Romans.

_They_, she thought bitterly. _Not her_.

She did not give a damn whether they caught the Roman family or not, but she still had to do her job, if she wanted to live.

She sighed loudly, but was silenced by the fierce winds. She pulled her cloak closer to her, and hid her hands in the relative warmth of the fabric's shelter. Her hands were freezing numb, and she had to look at her hands now and then to confirm that they were still there.

After a vain attempt to rub heat into her icy hands, she closed her eyes and tried to get some rest- if it were even possible- while they battled their way through the raging snowstorm.

--------------

The blizzard had eventually died down, and the first glow of light found its way through a thick layer of clouds, which promised another bleak day.

Abigail walked in the protection of trees, leading her horse behind her. Silently. Or as silently as a person who had not had proper rest for five days could.

She was ordered to scout ahead, while the infantry took a brief rest. She knew that they were just on their tail now, and the Romans would be overrun by the end of the day.

Tired as she was, her ears picked up a distant thudding. She hid her horse behind a large tree, then, with some difficulty, climbed up the tree. She stopped at a broad branch which could easily hold her light weight, and laid on her stomach, her eyes on the road.

As she expected, the dark Sarmatian scout appeared on his horse. She smiled grimly as he approached, and carefully unlatched her bow from her back, and felt for the feathery end of an arrow. Notching it, she pulled the bowstring back, aiming for the scout, who was obviously unaware of her presence.

Just as she was about to unleash her arrow, there was an earsplitting battle cry, and four Saxons rushed into the scene. The scout dodged an arrow sent flying by a crossbow, and leapt off his horse, notching his bow in a matter of seconds and killed one of his enemies.

Finishing off another in a blink, he unsheathed his sword and flung his bow on the snow, calmly waiting for the remaining Saxons to run toward him.

"Fools," thought Abigail darkly yet triumphantly as she watched the Sarmatian evenly slashed a Saxon dead and behead the other in minutes.

The man turned around in a circle, holding his sword warily in front of him, looking for any hidden enemies. Taking advantage of the situation, Abigail raised her bow again, aimed it at the scout, and without hesitation, let loose the arrow.

Sensing the attack, the Sarmatian dropped to the ground just in time as the arrow whizzed past his ear and landed harmlessly in the snow. He whipped around and immediately spotted Abigail, who abandoned her bow and jumped off the tree, her legs nearly collapsing when she hit the deep snow.

Unsheathing her sword, she stood face to face with the Sarmatian. Wordlessly, they circled each other, keeping a safe distance between them. Then, suddenly, he lashed out at her. She managed to block his stroke, but it was so powerful that it nearly threw her off balance. She quickly recovered her stand, but she could only hold on to her sword as he repeatedly sliced his saber at her.

He was too fast for her. She was pushed back further and further, her hands becoming numb from gripping the hilt of her sword so tightly, and her arms ached from the force he exerted on her blade. Her head became heavy with the steely clangs echoing in the cold air and her eyes blurry from fatigue.

A piercing pain seared her upper right arm, and she cried out loud in anguish, dropping to her knees. The Sarmatian immediately knocked the sword from her hand and held the tip of his at her neck, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

She glared at him, breathing heavily, and felt blood seep out of her wound. He stared back steadily, his gaze unwavering.

"Who are you?" he asked again with an edge of impatience.

Gathering the last of her strength, Abigail kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, causing him to fall backwards. Quickly, she scrambled up on her feet and launched herself at him, ready to strangle him.

But he was much, much stronger than her, and in no time, he had her pinned under him, her hands held down at her sides. Her hair was sprawled across her face, and her wound throbbed painfully. She gasped for breath, and he was also panting, his face close to hers.

She could see his dark eyes clearly now, fierce but collected, boring into her own blue eyes. Strangely, she found it hard to turn her stare away from him, and she continued to look into his eyes, until she saw the reflection of her face in them- messy, out of breath, and scared.

"Who. Are. You," he said in nearly a whisper, his breathing now returned to normal.

Once again, defiance welled in her heart. With a growl, she hurled her face into his, breaking his nose- and patience.

She yelped in pain as he roughly twisted her injured arm behind her back after flipping her over, and laid on top of her, her limbs helplessly trapped under his. She struggled, but stopped short as he tugged her arm brutally.

"Who are you!" he growled into her ear ferociously, his heated breath on her face, and a drop of blood from his broken nose trickling onto the back of her neck.

She twisted her neck as far as she could, so that she was glaring at him. Through gritted teeth, she spat out her answer with equal ferociousness as well as indignity, "A traitor."

--------------

Hi! I've _finally_ updated! Sorry for my delay, for those who don't know, I've been nominated as a candidate to run for my school's council, and I've been incredibly busy. I just delivered my campaign speech today, it went okay. I'll know if I've made it or not on Monday, after everyone's cast their votes. Wish me luck!

Well, I'm sure it's very obvious it's going to be a TristanOC now (see teaser thing), I hope you all Tristan lovers out there will be happy about this lol.

Thank you so much for another seven reviews! It's so sweet of you all, it really spurs me on :)

Mysticpig: Actually, south is the easier way since they don't have to go through the mountains if they went that way. But the Saxons are cutting off their retreat there, so they have to go into the east. I hope you're not confused anymore ;) Thanks for reviewing!

Kasora: Haha! Miss Shakespeare! Aww, thank you for the sweet compliments! Yes! An anti-Saxons Club is a brilliant idea. I hates the tricksy Saxonses! Lol. I was on summer vacation in July and August, because it's summer in Hong Kong. We have different holidays from schools in Australia. Did I tell you that I once lived in Sydney for two years? It was like -gasps- ten years ago, but still, I lived there xD

KnigthMaiden: Yes, yes, I know you are very much in love with him! xD And yes, a TristanOC. I hope you're happy :D

BillieJoe is effin sexy0: Aww, thank you so much! Hehe, it's really lucky that I made the blunder, or else they'll be back at the Wall too soon and they'll have to leave soon which means less time for Tristan… ahem. No, no sneak peeks. Sorry xD Aww, poor thing! I hope you'll be un-grounded soon xDD

Lozcollie: Thank you! This chapter is the longest of the four, I think, I hope you liked it :D

Nilmelwen: Yeah, I want to write something that is more "serious" instead of tons of fun like my other stories. I'm glad you think it's a good thing! I know, I scared the heck out of myself writing the first chapter -shudders- -bounces around the room as well- I hope you liked this chapter :D

Andysprettylady: Lol, I have granted your wish, though she's not really escaping xD Thanks for reviewing!

And thanks to those who put this story on your favourites! I adore you! I'll update soon, I promise :D


	5. Tristan

Chapter 5: Tristan

Approaching hoofbeats caused Arthur to look up from Marius's limp corpse on the snow, a patch of blood seeping from below his lifeless body. He immediately drew his sword, as did his men, trying to determine the source of the sounds. He relaxed and lowered Excalibur when Tristan emerged from the trees, his usually serene face stained by a bleeding nose.

"How many did you kill?" shouted Bors almost playfully.

"Four."

The scout flung a pair of daggers and a shield engraved with Saxon symbols on the white ground, along with a wooden crossbow, meeting Arthur's eye.

"Armour-piercing, we leave now," he said hoarsely.

Arthur nodded. Enough words were said. He gave Guinevere a reassuring glance before turning around, preparing to give out instructions to the people when Tristan's voice stopped him.

"Arthur, I have a captive."

He frowned. The last thing they needed was an extra burden. He trusted his scout's judgment though, and he watched with as much patience as he could muster as Tristan dismounted his horse, lifting a woman from the saddle. He roughly shoved her in front of him, holding her hands behind her back. The first thing that struck Arthur was her piercing blue eyes, which boldly held his gaze.

"She laid in ambush," said Tristan. "I killed her companions."

Arthur stared at the young woman, whose pale face was framed by waves of blonde hair. "A Saxon?"

Tristan shook his head. "A Briton."

The commander furrowed his brow. So they had a traitor as a captive.

"Put her in the cart," he said and walked away.

--------------

The cart waggled and creaked as it made its way forward laboriously in the deep snow, led by a single horse and driven by one of the Sarmatian knights. It was an ancient heirloom of one of the British peasants. It stank of hay, dead animals and anything farmers left in carts to rot. It was covered by a dirty rug on the top to shield the interior from the severe cold outside, and another acted as a flap-door. The wooden interior was cold and hard, but dry nonetheless. It was far from comfortable, though it was certainly better than tramping in the snow.

Abigail hunched in a filthy corner at the back of the cart. She was exhausted, and feeling rather faint from the blood loss of her wound on her upper right arm. It did not feel like a deep gash, and she hoped it had stopped bleeding. She had not had the chance to examine it yet, since her tunic was thick and she had difficulty taking it off.

A boy laid sound asleep near the flap, his frail body draped in thick cloaks. His head fell to his left, swaying to the movement of the cart. His soft brown hair covered his eyes, and his mouth was slightly open, snoring softly.

Abigail could not remember the last time she had slept in that manner. As the Saxon army's scout, she was constantly on the move. It seemed to her that Cerdic was not even aware of the fact that she was human, and that humans needed sleep. She had no choice but to nap while on horseback, or while the Saxons massacred the villages they came upon. The latter was a rarer case, considering the fact that massacres were noisy and disturbing.

And that it was her people who were being killed.

Strangely, nightmares seldom haunted her. Maybe it was because she was never asleep long enough for nightmares to come to her.

Now, all she wanted to do was to close her eyes and let sleep hurl her into sweet oblivion. Every jolt of the cart felt like the soothing rock of a cradle, every creak of the wheels sounded like a lullaby, and the very warmth of the cart seemed to weigh heavily on her eyelids.

Just when she thought she could resist no more, the flap of the cart was pushed open. Freezing air sliced at her face, instantly restoring awareness in her. The Sarmatian scout came in, bending his tall frame so that he could make his way over to her.

He crouched down beside her, and the two locked eyes for a moment, with her glaring at him, and him, well, she could not see his eyes. She assumed he was glaring at her too. He broke the connection first, glancing at the belt she had tied on her arm in hopes of stopping blood loss. Then he spoke, in a low, but far from gentle tone.

"Dagonet will tend to your wound," he said.

As if on cue, the driver of the cart entered, carrying a water bottle and a bundle of healing materials in the other. Abigail glowered at him, but he ignored her stare and reached out for her right arm.

She shrunk away, both from mistrust and defiance, glaring so hard that her brows trembled from the force she exerted on them.

"I must see to it, it might get infected," said Dagonet kindly.

Her expression softened ever so slightly, then, eyeing at him skeptically, she nodded. Dagonet moved closer to her, and removed her belt. Abigail immediately felt blood rushing back to her arm.

"I'll have to tear open your sleeve," said Dagonet, glancing at her for consent.

She nodded. And he easily tore the thick fabric apart. She grimaced from the force, and again when she saw her wound.

It was a bloody mess. The bleeding had stopped, and dry blood crusted the gash. It was already showing signs of infection, and Dagonet got to work quickly. He wet a clean rag, grasped her arm, and wiped the cloth over her torn skin.

She nearly gasped from the pain, but bit the insides of her mouth and managed to stay silent. Abigail shot a glare at the scout, hoping to make him feel guilty for wounding her. But he watched Dagonet work, never moving his gaze away from her arm.

"You injured the lady?" asked Dagonet as he wet another rag with a small smile.

"She tried to kill me," he replied tonelessly.

Dagonet raised an eyebrow. He continued to wash the wound until all the dried blood had been done away with. He then took half a bulb of garlic from a pocket and rubbed it on the cut. It stung greatly, and Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, digging her fingernails into her arm to reduce the pain.

Her wound felt as if it were on fire when Dagonet finally wrapped it in clean bandages. After cleaning up the mess of bandages and cloths, he nodded to her, then went to kneel beside the child. He wrapped the cloaks more closely around the boy, then stroked his cheek tenderly, before returning to his seat outside.

After a few moments of silence, the Sarmatian slid to sit on the cold wood, propping up his long legs.

"My commander wishes to question you," he said without turning to her.

She did not reply. She simply continued to stare at him, mostly in disdain, but with curiosity as well. He sat a decent distance from her, close enough for her to see the braids in his hair. She had noticed them before. In fact, they were the first thing she spotted when she first laid eye on him. She had silently studied them while sitting behind him in the saddle, trying so hard to stop bumping against his back. Braids normally struck her as a feminine thing, but, strangely, they somehow matched him.

His eyes were once again hidden behind those braids, so dark and mysterious. Her eyes drifted along the ridge of his nose, which had been snapped back into place, with a bruise sitting on the tip. Then she turned her focus to his limbs, long and slender, with more agility and strength than one would imagine, which had so effortlessly trapped her beneath him a few hours ago; then to his sword, a saber, rather, its deadly blade hidden in its battered sheath.

Her hand instinctively reached up to her bandaged wound. It was then she realized that her right arm was exposed to the cold now that her sleeve had been ripped open, and she immediately wrapped her cape tightly around her shoulders.

The flap was swept aside, and Arthur stepped in.

Abigail stared at him in both awe and detestation. Arthur-Artorious- the knight she had heard so much about in bedtime stories since she was a child; Arthur, the man whose sword and mercy she was under.

The scout acknowledged his commander's presence with a nod, and the Roman returned it. He knelt down a safe distance from her, and studied her. Abigail returned the gesture, trying hard to keep the evident fascination out of her eyes.

Arthur was a tall man, of medium build, his face grave and imposing, etched with fatigue. She stared at his sword, Excalibur, in sheer amazement. She had never seen a weapon so magnificent and extravagantly ornamented with carvings of pagan gods, dragons and other mystical creatures. It looked- it _was_ majestic, and seemed to glow in the dull of the cart, and it took her much difficulty to remove her gaze from this piece of wonder.

"What is your name?" Arthur asked in a quiet voice, full of authority.

Abigail glared at him in reply. He waited patiently for an answer, but when it became clear that she had no intention whatsoever to respond, he moved on.

"Are you a Briton?"

No response. Not even a twitch of the lip. Her eyes turned to stare straight ahead of her, through him.

"If you will tell me of the Saxons' plans, I will take you under my wing," said Arthur almost soothingly now.

A fire seemed to spring from her heart. She tossed him a fierce glare, hurt and anger plain in her wide blue eyes.

"I may be a traitor, but I have honour," she growled through gritted teeth in a dangerous voice.

That did it. Nodding, Arthur got up. He made his way to the flap, but stopped midway and turned back to her. He handed her a bundle wrapped in cloth, which she snatched rudely out of his hands without thinking. He left the cart without another word.

The Sarmatian scout got up also, not even bothering to look at her.

"Wait."

He stopped, and twisted around to her, his left arm extended to support himself from falling on the joggling cart. His braids covered his face, but she could imagine his impassive face.

"What is your name?"

For a second, Abigail thought he would not reply.

Then, he replied in the quiet voice of his, "Tristan."

--------------------

Hello! I haven't updated for a few days, and it's time I did so :) I hope you liked this chapter, it isn't a very significant one, but at least she now knows his name. Thanks for the **eleven** beautiful comments for the last chapter! That really took me by surprise, thanks so much! I love reading your ideas :D

Kasora: Lol, stalker! xD Just kidding. Hehe, I don't have msn, so I really don't have any idea how you lurk on it ;) Aww, thank you for your compliments! I haven't been described as "brilliant" before -huggles- Ah yes, summer is unpleasant. I'm glad autumn's coming in HK! Yes, yes, you can call me an Aussie, I guess ;) Thank you for your luck! But I lost anyway. Sigh. Yeah, but that leaves more time to reading, writing, riding and tennis. So it's good in a way. I hope you liked this chapter! Update HYD soon :D

Nilmelwen: Thank you! I'm glad you like the intensity! I think I add more depth to this story than I do in others. I think more from my characters' point of view, and try to convey their feelings through words. I know I can add much more depth to my characters, and I'm trying to dig deeper every time. I hope you'll see improvement in my writing ;) And I'm glad you think the ending was "brilliant"! That really was a big compliment. Thank you!

K-Neptune: Thanks! I hope you liked the chapter!

KnightMaiden: Lol! Now you've got me obsessed with him too! Thanks for reviewing!

Phantom666: Cool name! Thanks for reviewing, I hope you liked my update :)

BilliJoe is effin sexy0: Exactly what I was thinking buddy! Getting pinned down under him, think of that -blushes- Aww, I'm glad you love Abigail! Yes, she is tough. She has no choice but to be what she is now, including the traitor part. Sigh. She is doubtful of herself too. I won't tell you too much right now, I promise I'll right more about her emotions in future chapters. Lol! I'd love Tristan to snog her right there and then, but sorry, it just isn't the time with the Saxons right up their arses lol! I hop eyou liked this chapter!

Mandamirra10: I'm glad you think it's well-written, Amanda! Thanks for reviewing!

Eshlyn Kar: Thank you! I hope you liked this update!

Andysprettylady: Lol, you said you wanted her to escape with the Romans, silly xD And now she is… in a way lol. I hope you liked the update!

BornWithAFever: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Thanks for reviewing!

Wings As Eagles: I'm glad you like my portrayal of him! I try very hard to keep him cold and calm as he is, though it is difficult. I want to see him smiling and all that so much, you see ;) Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

I'll try to update asap, I'm really looking forward to reading your reviews:D


	6. Death

Chapter 6: Death

Abigail did fall asleep in the end. With her stomach full- the package Arthur gave her contained a generous ration of bread and cheese- her wound clean, her body warm, and her mind at peace, she had found it easy to surrender to slumber. And for the first time in months, she rested both her exhausted body and strained soul.

The sky was darkening when she awoke, and it took her a while before she remembered where exactly she was. The cart was struggling more than ever in the deep snow, jerking abruptly every now and then. Irritated, she sat up straighter, straining her neck to stop her head from hitting the wooden wall every time the cart stopped.

Abigail felt eyes on her, and noticed that a young woman was sitting with the boy, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. She had eyes that seemed so big and dark that her thin, pale face seemed unable to contain them. She wore a large fur cape, and underneath, a flowing green dress, which matched her long dark hair.

"You are a Briton," she said quietly, still looking at Abigail.

She did not reply. She returned the stare expressionlessly.

"Are you a Woad?" the girl continued.

"Not all Britons are necessarily _Woads_," sneered Abigail. She had heard about Woads- a tribe of rebellious Britons who were great warriors, fighting for years, but in vain, for their country. Abigail then spotted a tattoo on the girl's wrist, which was so bony that it looked painful. She was a Woad.

"Where are we?" asked Abigail, changing the subject.

"Headed to a lake," the woman answered.

"A lake?"

She nodded solemnly. "It is our only way out."

Abigail nearly laughed aloud. A lake? There was no chance of survival for these peasants. Here they were- cold, weary and defenceless save for the seven Sarmatian knights. Just a few hours behind, Cynric led a strong two-hundred-man infantry, every one of them bloodthirsty and merciless. _They had no way out._

"They are near," whispered the woman, hatred and determination in her eyes.

--------------------

Tristan halted his horse at the edge of the lake beside Arthur, surveying the large, frozen surface coated with a thin powder of snow. The solid face looked firm enough to walk on, and he glanced at Arthur, who was staring grimly at the lake.

"Is this the only way?" asked Arthur somberly.

Tristan nodded.

"It's a risk," Arthur murmured to himself.

"One we must take," added Tristan.

Arthur nodded, and turned to his men. "Dismount. Tell the villagers to get off the carts and spread out."

In a flurry of shouts and orders, Arthur and Tristan stepped onto the ice first. A thunderous growl of cracking ice ripped through the cold air, and both knights stopped short, their horses neighing in fright and pulling on the reins. An unfamiliar ripple of fear ran down Tristan's spine, but his face remained grave, as always. He knelt down carefully, one knee on the ice, and felt the vibration of the ice under his fingers pressed against the surface.

"Will it hold?" Arthur asked, his voice and expression unreadable.

Tristan gave a brisk nod. It should hold. It had to hold.

When all was still again, Arthur stepped forward, ignoring the ominous protests of the lake as he advanced steadily. Tristan followed, murmuring to his anxious stead soothingly.

"Tell them to spread out!" yelled Arthur over the continuous groans of the ice.

Tristan walked with great care, treading as lightly as possible, knowing the untried ice below him could give way any moment. He felt the ice quiver beneath him as the peasants scuttled behind, triggering fresh waves of moans from the frozen lake with each step. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the cart on which he left the British girl. She was asleep the last time he checked, she did not even wake when Dagonet inspected her wound. She must have been worn out.

He decided that it was safer this way. He knew that she could be a threat, even though she was a woman and wounded. She was a trained scout and fighter of the ruthless Saxon army, and if she managed to lay hand on any weapons, he was certain that she would have no trouble slaying anyone that stood in her way.

His lips twitched sarcastically as he thought of the arrow that could have killed him that morning. No, she would have no trouble at all.

Arthur suddenly stopped, holding up his right hand. As the creak of wheels, the stamp of feet and the noise of the lake died down, they heard it- the Saxon drums. _Thud, thud, thud_. Faint, but growing gradually louder with each passing second.

The knights gathered around Arthur in a circle, each man knowing that the moment had come.

"Knights," began Arthur, breaking the silence among them.

Bors shrugged. "I'm tried of running. And these Saxons are so close behind, my ass is hurting."

Dagonet and Gawain smirked at this, Arthur shook his head with a small smile.

"It'll be a pleasure to put an end to this racket," said Gawain.

"We'll finally get a look at the bastards," said Galahad.

Tristan tilted his head to look at the sky. It was grey like dust. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. "Never liked looking over my shoulder anyway," he said, looking ahead.

"Here. Now," finished Dagonet, shouldering his battle club.

All eyes fell on Lancelot, who had not yet spoken. He shrugged, briefly meeting eyes with Arthur before turning away towards the supply carriage where Jols was waiting.

"You're seven against two hundred!" cried a distressed Ganis, once again by Arthur's side as the knights unloaded their weapons with the help of their faithful squire and the Bishop's reluctant secretary, Horton.

"Eight," said a voice.

The men turned around to see Guinevere coolly pass by, picking up a random mercenary's bow, testing the bowstring's tension while saying, "You can use another bow."

Tristan twisted his neck and saw the British girl staring at them from the cart. They locked eyes for a moment, and he could feel her hostility even from such a distance. He slung his bow over his shoulder, strapped a few more daggers to his belt, then walked over to the cart.

"Get out," he said to the girl as he reached the cart, who was glaring at him as usual.

"Why?" she asked rudely.

"You're too dangerous to be left with the Romans," he replied curtly. "Get off."

The boy tugged on Tristan's sleeve, and he turned his gaze to him.

"Where is Dagonet?" he asked timidly.

Tristan ignored him and said to the girl, with an edge of impatience. "Get off. Now."

When she did not move, he stepped onto the cart and grabbed her right wrist, yanking her off the vehicle. She cried out in pain, landing heavily on her side, then got up and kicked the back of his knee roughly. Calmly, he twisted her arm and held it at the base of her spine, causing her to arch her back painfully.

"Bastard," she hissed as he pushed her forward.

He did not reply, and held her firmly as they returned to the knights.

"What's she doing here?" asked Gawain as Tristan shoved her onto the ice gruffly, beside the knights' horses.

He gave his bow an experimental pull, and answered, "She's dangerous."

Gawain shrugged, gathering a few spare swords and lances before moving off. Tristan grabbed a short crossbow, a clever Sarmatian device that was designed to be fitted on the arm. Its short arrows could be fired rapidly and repeatedly with great precision, he knew it was bound to be handy in a situation as dire as the one they were facing.

"I love this little bastard," joked Bors as he took another one.

"Indeed." Tristan shouldered a pack of arrows and walked towards the rest of the knights, who were standing side by side in a straight line, spare swords, bows and arrows by their feet. They were giving their weapons last-minute checks, while the rest of the caravan continued their way to the opposite shore to Hadrian's Wall- and safety- under Ganis's charge.

Tristan positioned himself next to Galahad. He grinned at the scout, practicing with a bow, flexing his elbows and shoulders.

"Ready to cleanse the earth of Saxon scum?" the youngest knight asked lightheartedly, releasing the bowstring, causing it to shoot forward then bounce back, vibrating vigorously.

The scout simply shook his head. That lad could use some more practice. He lifted his bow, which had seen many battles, with his left hand into position, and his right hand slid into place halfway down the bowstring, his fingers hooking themselves around the rigid string. Slowly, he pulled it back. He could hear the stiff squeak of the ends of the string as it stretched to its maximum length. Unhurriedly, Tristan swept his bow in an arc, aiming for the line of trees from which the Saxons would emerge any minute, then back again.

Lowering his bow, he looked to his right. As usual, the archers, Bors and himself flanked the sides. Next to Bors was Dagonet, picking bits of ice from the tip of his battle club. Lancelot stood next to the giant, his swords partly drawn from their sheaths on his back, his hands gripping their hilts idly. Arthur stood in the middle, Excalibur drawn, his face grim with anticipation. The girl stood next to him, seeming frail and cold in her thin dress. She looked determined and enthusiastic though, fingering the bowstring of her large bow while gazing at the bank longingly. Gawain and Galahad were talking casually with each other, as if they were back in the tavern again after a hard day's work.

Only the hard day's work had not yet begun. This, most likely, would be their last battle together. He wondered whether he was to feel happy or sad. He did not seem to feel anything out of ordinary, just the normal pleasure to know that a good fight was in store for them. It would be just like old times. Tristan decided that he would enjoy it, and hoped that they would not lose anyone. Not when their freedom was only a step away.

Suddenly, there was an eruption of rolling drumbeats, and the Saxons emerged from the trees, marching rhythmically in two packed lines. The very earth seemed to tremble under their feet. At the front of the line were four Saxons, with two drummers on either sides of the commanding officers.

"Looks like another day at the lake," remarked Gawain jokingly.

In their hearts, they all knew it was not. They were badly outnumbered.

The commander of the infantry, a bald Saxon clothed in furs with a beard, held up his hand as they reached the edge of the lake. The army stopped, so did the drummers. The two forces- an army of two hundred men, and a band of seven knights and a lady- took their time to size up each other. The air was silent, as if the world around them stopped moving. A smirk tugged at the ends of Tristan's cracked lips. This would be very interesting.

The knights watched as the Saxon commander gestured at one of the archers in the front row, who stepped forward, pointed his bow up to the sky, and released an arrow.

It climbed up the air, but faltered half-way and fell, skidding harmlessly across the ice to stop a few yards from Arthur's feet. He did not even trouble himself to look at the arrow.

"I believe they're waiting for an invitation," he said, looking straight ahead at the Saxon commander. "Bors, Tristan."

"We're far out of range," protested the girl.

Ignoring her comment, Tristan notched an arrow, and he aimed for the sky while pulling back on the bowstring, knowing where exactly his shot would land- and released.

The scout's arrow landed square in the chest of one of the Saxon archers, who fell dead instantly. Bors' hit another archer in the neck, who let out a strangled cry before being silenced by death. The Saxon commander looked infuriated, and Bors laughed noisily. Tristan caught Arthur giving the Woad a meaningful look, and she responded with a scowl, raising her bow, arrow notched, to arm's height.

The rest followed her lead, including the Saxon archers. Tristan took his time, smoothing the feathers of the arrow before positioning it onto the bow. He savoured moments like this, the calm before all hells let loose. Before his lust for blood consumed his mind as he unleashed arrow after arrow, forgetting his mortality, as if the purpose of every breath he took was to take life, one after another; before he turned into the serene, deadly predator he had somehow became.

"Hold fire till I give the command," came Arthur's even voice.

That they did, and none moved a muscle as they held their bows at eye level, their aim dead straight at their enemies. The Saxon archers also had their bows drawn, standing behind their commander, waiting for his order.

The spell was broken when the Saxon drummers began beating their instruments again in a quick staccato, and the soldiers, holding their shields in front of them, marched forward onto the ice, despite the ominous moans of the lake. Tristan half-smiled. It had begun.

"Aim for the wings, make them cluster," instructed Arthur, patiently waiting for the army to move closer into range.

"Now!"

At Arthur's command, eight arrows flew towards the two sides of the Saxons' army, befalling eight soldiers at once, four on each side. Moving as one, the eight of them reloaded, and fired, again each killing a Saxon.

As Arthur predicted, the Saxons started to crowd together, the ends of the two lines trying to move to the relative safety of the center. Their commander shouted furiously at his men, willing them to hold their ranks. They did not, though, after seeing comrade after comrade fall victim to the knights' continuous rain of arrows.

The roar of cracking ice never stopped howling, and over the crashing noise, Arthur shouted, "The ice will hold! Pull back! Prepare for combat!"

Tristan flung his bow onto the ice, but did not unsheathe his saber. He attached the short crossbow to his lower arm, and started firing at the Saxons, as Bors did, while the others held their swords and lances. The scout now smiled to himself, thinking whether he or Bors would be the victor that day.

"Dag!"

His concentration broke when he heard Bors screaming, and immediately saw Dagonet rushing out towards the Saxons, his club aloft. Without hesitation, Arthur followed, a shield in one hand and Excalibur in the other.

"Cover him!" yelled Lancelot, picking up his bow once again.

Dagonet stopped in the middle of the two armies, and began hacking at the ice with violent blows. Tristan eyed a Saxon archer who was aiming for Dagonet, and brought him down within a second. He continued firing at the archers while Dagonet hammered at the ice, shouting his battle cry with every strike, the ice echoing his yells.

Then an arrow hit his leg. He did not seem to notice it, though his stand looked a bit unsteady, and lifted his club above his head once again. Tristan spotted the archer who wounded Dagonet and killed him, but another arrow embedded itself in the giant's shoulder, causing him to stumble.

"Dag!" bellowed Bors, unleashing his arrows rapidly, tears in his eyes.

Dagonet was not about to give up. Against all odds, he straightened his body, hauling up his weapon high above his bald head, ready to swing it down towards the now brittle surface.

Suddenly, an arrow flew past Galahad's head, and found its way to Dagonet's neck as his club hit the ice.

Tristan whipped around, stunned.

It was her.

--------------------

I hope you don't hate me :( A sad chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it, even if you don't like it. I put a lot of thought into writing this chapter, and I'm literally exhausted hehe. A lot of Tristan, I tried to explore his character, what he thinks in battle, etc. I know I haven't really dug that deep, I'll try harder next time! And this is probably my first battle scene, I hope I did alright. Lots of arrows, I know, it got sort of tiring lol. I promise some swords next time.

Thank you for thirteen amazing comments for the last chapter! You guys are so sweet, you really inspire me to write on :D

K-Neptune: Wow, thank you so much! I'm glad you think it's original, I try real hard to be creative :D I hope you liked this chapter!

Mandamirra: Yay! I'm glad you think I made him more appealing this way, thank you for your review!

KnightMaiden: Thank you! I hope you liked the update!

Phatom666: Yes, I do intend to keep writing ;) Thanks for reviewing!

Lozcollie: Glad you think it's turning out nicely :) I hope you liked the update!

Andysprettylady: Lol, it's okay, we all forget something from time to time ;) Aww, I'm amazing? –am flattered- thank you!

Eshlyn Kar: Thank you! I hope you liked the update!

HyperSquishy: Thanks! I hope you like it :)

Nilmelwen: Lol, it's okay :D Hehe, I'm glad Abigail scares you! -evil laughter- okay, I was kidding ;) She's closing herself out, that's why she's always emotionless. It's the only way she can do to make her life easier as a betrayer, that's what I think. To detach herself from emotions, people, virtually anything. I'm interested to see how the story develops too, I haven't actually planned anything yet. Yup, Abigail and Tristan's relationship will be very fun to write about lol! Thanks for reviewing!

Kasora: Daniel Radcliffe's going to South Australia? Cool! It's not like I like him or anything, but well, it's just cool because nobody famous visits Hong Kong, sadly :( I suck at sports besides riding too! I love tennis, but I'm really bad at it lol. Sigh. I lost in the election, I think I told you that… anyways, I'm glad you loved the chapter! Sorry I have to cut this rambling short, I have to study for my bio test :X

Wings As Eagles: Yay! I'm glad you think that! It's hard to keep him cold and distant when all you want to do is to hug him lol. Yay! Another Guinevere-hater lol xD

BillieJoe is effin sexy0: Aww, thank you! Yeah, Tristan's dreamy even though he likes killing people and stuff lol. A myth? Wow, good luck on it! It sounds hard and fun at the same time ;) Thanks for reviewing!

Alexis in Wonderland: Thanks, I hope you liked the update :)

I'll try to update asap! I'm really inspired to write this story, so you can expect an update within a week, I think :) Can't wait to read your reviews on this chapter!


	7. Sorry

Chapter 7: Sorry

She felt all their gazes on her. She did not care. She kept her bow in place, her left hand holding up the weapon, her right hand still in the position where it where it had released the string. Her blue eyes were on Dagonet, who had crumbled onto his knees. She could not move, her head was blank, her heart racing.

There was an ear-splitting wail as the frozen surface tore open, pulling Saxons down into the freezing water down below. Dagonet, swaying uncertainly, fell into the opening gap on his right, just as Arthur reached him. The commander crashed onto his knees, reaching into the freezing lake below to grab his fallen brother. An arrow protruded from Arthur's shoulder, and he struggled to pull Dagonet out of the water.

She slowly lowered her bow.

She watched as Dagonet's lifeless body was finally pulled out of the water with the help of the other bald knight, who was shouting at his friend, trying to revive him. The others had turned their attention back to the battlefield, raining arrows on the Saxons. Most had drowned in the cold water, and few were lucky enough to escape the wrath of the broken ice and the knights' assaults.

Cynric had retreated to the safety of the back of the lines, surrounded by his bodyguards. He caught her eye, and she bowed, showing her loyalty to the Saxon army.

A loyal traitor.

The irony! Thought Abigail as she straightened. Cynric nodded at her, acknowledging her gesture. He then gathered the remains of his light infantry, and disappeared into the woods, leaving the wounded soldiers to die and the corpses of his men to rot.

Suddenly, she felt a hand wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air supply. She found herself staring into a pair of wide, furious green eyes.

"You wretched woman!" the blond-haired knight screamed in her face, his fingers tightening their grip.

Her lungs were starting to ache from the lack of air when one of the knights, a handsome one with dark curls, stepped in and separated the two. Abigail gasped for air, her throat dry and scorching as she drank in deep breaths of icy air.

"Bloody witch!" the knight who assaulted her continued to shout at her, but was held back by the same knight who rescued her.

"Gawain," he said pleadingly, grasping both shoulders of the enraged man.

"Why did you bring her here?" Gawain directed his attack to Tristan, who looked at him stonily, his face vacant.

"Gawain!" the other dark-haired knight aided his brother in holding Gawain back, who was ready to lunge at Tristan."Enough!"

"Lancelot! We need a horse!" came Arthur's shout.

Lancelot immediately gestured for their squire, who lead a black mare forward. He grabbed the reins and walked briskly towards Arthur, the others following.

"Why did you do that?"

Abigail turned around slowly, looking the squire straight in the eye. He shifted uncomfortably under her piercing gaze, her face blank and pale. Her eyes, though looking into his eyes, were unseeing.

Her left hand slowly inched towards her right upper arm, where her wound was, now throbbing dully. Then she turned around again, her eyes finding Dagonet's body, surrounded by his grieving brothers, and a weeping woman. The man who had showed hospitality and kindness towards her a few hours ago, now laid dead on the ice, an arrow in his neck- killed by no other than her.

--------------------

Tristan stared into the small fire of his camp, his head resting against a tree, his legs bent at the knees, his arms hidden beneath his cloak.

The fire crackled merrily, sending waves of warmth towards his stiff, tired body. They had caught up with the caravan a few hours after the battle on the lake, which had stopped to camp for the night. Ganis had done his duty well, the caravan had made considerable progress.

In the protection of trees, the weather was much more agreeable compared to the past few days when they were exposed to the snow. Besides, they were nearing the sea, and the weather was always milder at the coast.

Fulcinia, the wife of the dead Roman lord, came by and handed Tristan a bowl of hot soup. He nodded his thanks, and drank gratefully. It burned his throat slightly, but he ignored it and kept drinking. It sank in his stomach, and warmth coursed through his veins, all the way to his cold limbs.

There was a soft wail, and Tristan instantly recognized the small voice. Lucan was devastated by Dagonet's death, and he spent hours weeping quietly in the Roman lady's arms. He was not the only one overwhelmed by grief. Bors had sunk into silence, his pain evident in his tired face; Gawain took his death bitterly, threatening to kill the British girl every minute; Galahad and Lancelot seemed to have accepted this reality, their faces grim.

Arthur, like every time they lost someone, was blaming himself. Tristan knew it was none of Arthur's fault, but he was shouldering the responsibility alone as he always did.

The scout stared harder at the fire, bitterness weighing heavily in his heart. It was _his_ fault that Dagonet had died. It was _his_ fault the girl had a chance to obtain a weapon. It was _his_ fault that she was unwatched. Yes, he knew she was capable of killing, but he had not expected her to be as cold-blooded. Hell, she was probably as heartless as he was.

He removed his gaze from the flames and turned to look at the cart where the Briton had been left. The vehicle was left in the gloom, a few yards from his camp, its flaps covering the opening, but he could vaguely see her through the rather large slits of its sides. She seemed to be asleep, if not, she was still as a stone. She had been cold and distant when he shoved her roughly into the cart, not a word escaped her lips since she asked for his name. She simply glared at him with her large, glassy blue eyes. Anger stirred in his heart. Damn that bloody Briton. If she had not tried to kill him that day, he would never have captured her, and none of this would never had happened.

But then, if he had not caught her, the Saxons might have overcome them by this time.

Heaving a sigh, he let his head sag, his chin touching his chest as he brought his hand to his forehead. Dagonet…

"Tristan."

He recognized the voice immediately. He did not move as Arthur sat down beside him, shuffling to make himself comfortable on the cold ground. There was silence between them, and Tristan lifted his head from his hand and stared once again into the fire.

"It was not your fault," said Arthur quietly.

The scout shook his head.

"It was mine. I should have left her under the charge of the Roman mercenaries," continued the half-Roman resignedly.

Again, Tristan shook his head. "She would've killed them, and took the Roman boy."

Arthur did not speak, but tilted his head to look at the heavens through the treetops. Stars winked faintly overhead, and Tristan too tipped his head back to look at them. The small lights twinkled brightly, and for the first time that day, he seemed to find solace in their beauty. But then a black cloud sailed by, blanketing them instantly. Arthur sighed audibly.

"What is life?" he murmured wistfully. "It is but a flash of light in the darkness."

Then he stood up, and left Tristan pondering his question.

--------------------

Abigail stepped clear of twigs, stones or anything that would disclose her discreet visit. Everyone was asleep, and all was silent. Not even an owl or night creature stirred, causing her to breathe shallowly, as if her very breath would awaken the sleeping ones.

In her left hand, she held the crisp piece of parchment she was to deliver to the Saxons. She had spotted her hawk circling casually atop the trees, obviously trying not to attract attention to himself. He was one clever bird. In the parchment, with the quill and a small pouch of ink she always kept inside her tunic, she had scribbled a short message, containing only three but very important words:

_Romans tracking coastline._

A sharp pain in her wound caused her to wince, and she bit her lip on reflex. It must have gotten infected, but nobody bothered to help her change the bandages.

Her lips twisted into a grim smirk. Why should they? She had killed their friend, their brother. If she were in their place, she would have left herself to rot in hell.

She felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly shook it off. It was a rational decision to kill the man off, he was threatening to break the ice, which he did, in the end. Any soldier wanting to save his army would have killed him.

Except that she was not a soldier. And she did not want to save the Saxon army.

_Stop_, a voice in her head commanded. She was confusing herself again. Sighing heavily, she closed her eyes for a second, trying to push all thoughts away.

She was doing the right thing, she kept telling herself. Cerdic spared her life, he let her live, and she had to repay him.

Cerdic's cruel, mocking face came to her mind, that hateful, vile man who had murdered her family- all she wanted to do was to stick a knife through his guts, and watch him die a slow and agonizing death. He was an animal, and she was under his command and mercy.

There was a quiet tweet, and she looked up to see her hawk perching on a nearby tree, patiently waiting for her to approach him. Abigail felt something like comfort to see something she had become close to over the past year, and smiled as she walked towards the hawk.

He spread his wings and glided in a circle before landing on her left wrist. She stroke him fondly and he tilted his head to one side, staring at her. As she ran her fingers up and down his smooth feathers, she wondered where her horse was. She had found consolation in being with the brave and gentle stead, who faithfully went everywhere she did, never once failing her.

She sighed again. Emotional attachment brought nothing but pain in the end.

A twig snapped, and she spun around, causing her hawk to take flight and took footing on a branch above her.

In the darkness, he was even more intimidating. His face was completely hidden behind his mop of dark hair, his tall frame sickly relaxed. Abigail glared at him, which was all she seemed to do when she was in his presence.

How could she not? _He_ had captured her, turned her life upside down when she started to feel that she was worthy of life, though hers was destined to be dishonourable and shameful. When she thought she might as well accept the ruthless game Fate had trapped her in, he came and took her away, throwing away all she had worked for and all the pain she had undergone, to gain the least bit trust from her commander.

"Why are you doing this."

His voice brought her out of her reverie. She continued to glare at him, her mouth a thin, angry line. _Why was she doing this?_

He took a stride forward, stepping into the pool of moonlight which had found its way to the forest floor.

"Why did you kill him."

His voice, so deadly calm, scared her. He had not yet shown his reaction to her taking the life of his friend, and she wondered if he would take hers in return.

"To survive," she answered, surprised at the serenity of her own voice.

"Arthur had promised you safety if you devote your service to him," he said as if he had not heard her reply.

She cautiously took a step back as he walked towards her, her eyes flashing with distrust.

"It's not that simple when you're part of the Saxons," she snarled, panicking as she felt her back meet the rough bark of a tree.

"You're not part of them," he said, advancing.

"I am," she snapped, struggling to stay calm.

"You have a choice."

She laughed, a sharp, cynical laugh. "You're wrong. I don't."

Tristan stopped. He stared into her eyes, so blue and resigned, yet so defiant at the same time. He could not see a murderer in her, but she had proved to be one.

"I stay loyal to my commander," she said firmly.

Abigail could finally see his eyes, black and hard, boring into hers. He said evenly, "And I to mine."

Instantly, his fingers were clenched around her left wrist. She grimaced from the pain, and glared obstinately at him. His face remained unfeeling as he tightened his grip, and she felt her fingers yielding to the pressure. Despite her desperate attempt to fight back, one last squeeze on her wrist made her gasp aloud, and the parchment in her hand drifted lazily to the ground like an falling autumn leaf.

She did not dare move as he bent down to retrieve the message, and read it in the dim light. Calmly, he whipped out a dagger and placed it at her throat, the icy blade pressed against her skin.

"I should kill you," he said in a near whisper.

"Kill me, then," she growled, lifting her chin so as to give herself more space to breathe.

She did not even try to hide the fear she was feeling, nor the disgust she felt towards him. She was frightened, but unlike the time when Cerdic first found her, she felt a peaceful resignation as well, knowing that he had the right to kill her there and then. Her eyes drifted to the dark sky above, a lone star was shining, and she fixed her gaze on it, waiting for the blade to slice across her throat and, finally, take the useless, wretched life from her.

She felt him pressing the dagger closer, against her windpipe, restricting her breathing. She closed her eyes. Now he needed but to slide the dagger across her neck, and she would be dead. Death was a mere move away.

But it never came. Tristan abruptly pulled back, putting distance between them. Only then did she realize that he had been pushing her against the tree, and she felt cold air consuming her. She brought a hand to her neck, which felt strained, and her fingers touched a narrow, wet line.

She avoided his eyes, he made no effort to meet hers. She looked at her feet as he sheathed his dagger.

"You have no honour. You are not worthy of death," he said coarsely, as if explaining why he let her go.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and she blinked hard, determined not to let them fall.

He turned to leave, but she caught his arm and he stopped. She saw his shoulders tense, but she kept her grip on him, and slowly, he turned around. She kept her eyes on the ground, but she could feel his gaze on her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

--------------------

Hello! I'm finally updating after five days. School is starting to get hectic, so please excuse the intervals between my updates!

Wow, fourteen reviews? Thank you so much for your comments, I really appreciate them! Ah, yes, you all hate me for killing Dagonet now -tear- But well, I have to stick to Abigail's character, don't I? I hope you liked this chapter, the traitor is showing remorse in what she has done.

Eshlyn Kar: I'm glad you liked the twist! Thanks for reviewing!

Kasora: Oopsie, someone's mad! -ducks attacks- Sigh, yes, the knights are angry. Very angry, may I add. Really? Ioan has been to Sydney for a few times? Now that's cool! I hope he'll come to HK. Hmph. Aww, thank you -hugs- Yes, I had very little time to prepare, and it had been a great experience, so yeah, I'm not really that sad :) Thanks for the good luck! And Tristan! Where have you been, my naughty boy? Thanks for taking him home ;) Update HTD soon! I can't wait for the new chapter, and it's Saturday already :D

Alexis in Wonderland: Hmm, you don't usually review? I'm glad you did though! I'm so glad you liked the ending, I hope you enjoyed this chapter too! Hehe, don't worry about the I-can't-shut-up disorder, I happen to have one too xD

Mandamirra10: Sigh… it is partly Tristan's fault, but as I explained, he was actually right, except for not keeping an eye on her. I hope you at least like Abigail (a bit), though you don't feel sorry for her ;)

K-Neptune: Yay! I'm glad you think it's interesting! I hope you liked this chapter :D

BillieJoe is effin sexy0: -pats- Calm down! Yes, yes, she is sort of brutal… I don't want to admit it of course, but she is. I mean, she's been with the Saxons for a whole year, so please, don't blame her too much, she's my OC and I love her xD I'm glad you think it's awesome though! Some ideas were from the book, like the crossbow thing, but otherwise, it's my own ;) –cracks whip- Yes! You'd better go update your story like a good little girl, or I'll take Galahad/Tristan/Lancelot from you! And I'll update DTB as soon as I find my muse back for it… I sort of lost it /

Phantom666: Do you hate me? Lol… it was part of the plan!

KnightMaiden: I assure you, they will get together ;) Yes, I've read the book 3 times lol. I just love it! You've read it too, no?

The Ponderosa: Thank you so much! Yes, you've said that before, but I never get tired of reading it xDD I'm so glad you think I've kept him in character! Yeah! You like Abigail! No, it's not strange at all ;) I totally agree, I wouldn't like them to be kissing and all after such a short time, I'm glad you think that way too! Thanks for reviewing :D

Lozcollie: Thanks! I hope you liked my update!

Ferian: Thank you!

The sarahnater: You changed your name? Lol, thanks a lot!

MORWEN12: Wow, thank you! I hope you liked this chapter!

Mysticpig: Please… don't hate me -sniff- Don't be sad, things will turn out better :)

Now I must run along and have my lunch! Please review and I'll update asap, I'm very, very inspired to write this story lately :)


	8. Change

Chapter 8: Change

Arthur was sleeping on the ground, beside a black smudge of burnt twigs which suggested an extinguished camp fire. A battered grey wool sheet was flung across his chest, his head resting on a rotten fraction of a log. His hand was on Excalibur, clutching its hilt as if his life depended on it.

Tristan watched him for a few moments, then stooped down and gave his shoulder a firm push.

Immediately, Arthur's eyes flew open, wide and alert, while pulling out Excalibur out of its sheath. He stopped midway when he saw his scout, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good morning, Tristan," he said quietly, aware of the fact that it was not yet dawn. The camp was quiet, and smelt of burnt wood and put out fires. It was dark, but a grey light penetrated through the thick trees, illuminating the heavy fog in the forest with an eerie glow. The air was damp but cold, and Tristan instinctively pulled his cloak tighter around his broad shoulders.

"I'm going out," he told his commander.

Arthur nodded, stifling a yawn. He thought it strange. Tristan always slipped off without a word or trace, and reappeared an hour or two later, bringing important news of their enemies.

"I need someone to watch the British girl while I'm gone," he continued.

Ah, so that was why. Arthur yawned again, he was truly spent. His joints creaked as he slowly sat up, grimacing as his wound on his shoulder made its presence felt.

"Where is she?" asked Arthur.

Tristan nodded towards the desolate cart that stood by itself across the clearing.

"She is dangerous?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

The scout nodded grimly, and Arthur looked at the cart once again before turning to him.

"Take her with you," he said.

Arthur could see a slight change in Tristan's expression, so small that none but him and the knights, who had known him for so many years, would notice.

"It is not wise," said Tristan gravely.

"She is a scout, is she not?" asked Arthur. "She may be able to provide you with tidings of the Saxons."

"That I doubt," replied Tristan dryly.

"Take her with you," said Arthur again, speaking in a more authoritative tone. "We leave at first light. We will be tracing the coast."

Tristan gave a curt nod, clearly disgruntled with his commander's order, but he made no further protest and turned to his camp.

Arthur watched him go, then laid down, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder. He would have to have Dagonet look at the wound later.

Arthur stopped, shaking his head.

Dagonet was gone. It would take some time for him to get used to that. He sighed heavily, guilt settling once again in his heart as he drifted off to a much needed but fitful sleep.

--------------------

Abigail tried to sit up straighter in the saddle to avoid bumping into the scout, but with another canter stride she slammed into his back again, and she grimaced. It was hard enough sitting there without anything to hold on, except for the cantle of the saddle. She had no doubt that she would be sore for a good length of time.

She could not recall for how long they had been traveling, but she knew that they were going inland, judging from the thickening trees they passed by. Toward the Saxons. She knew why he brought her along, but no, she was not planning on giving any information of the Saxons to him.

He had woken her with a loud cough, and without a word, swept out of the cart and onto his horse. She had stood at the entrance of the cart, glaring at him while he waited for her to mount. When she did not, he yanked her up onto the saddle- fortunately by her left arm- and galloped out of the camp.

She scowled at his hair, the braids that brushed her face with every step of the horse. That man was vulgar.

She stopped short in her thoughts as she recalled the dagger pressed upon her neck. He was not vulgar- he was a cold-blooded, brutal warrior who would kill any that stood in his way.

But he had not killed her. His words haunted her. She was not worthy of death? It was perhaps the worst insult ever laid upon her. Worse still, she apologized to him.

She sighed. She could not help wondering why she said those words aloud. She had felt guilty and regret for killing Dagonet, which she would admit, were feelings she had barely experienced. She had taken lives, and she had done that in a detached manner, her victims being no more than people she was obliged to kill. But Dagonet?

She recalled the struggle inside her mind as she stood on the ice only yesterday. It seemed like a distant memory already. Dagonet had stood between her and the army to which her allegiance lied, and she had been compelled to bring him down.

She broke off her thoughts suddenly, briefly shaking her head. She was reasoning with herself. Again. She was yet again doubting herself and her actions, something she tended to do when she had done something very wrong.

Suddenly, Tristan reined his horse to a halt, causing her to slam her nose into his back. She muttered dirty words in complaint, but he ignored her, and she fell silent. She tilted her head and saw him scanning the area, which was infested by tall, evergreen trees, snow resting on their branches. Sunlight streamed down on the forest floor, and snow was starting to melt in the little pool of warmth.

Then she heard it. Noise. Of drums and a marching army.

_Saxons_.

She looked wildly about the forest, trying to judge where the sounds were coming from.

Tristan must have felt her movement, for he spoke softly, "North-west."

"Not far away," she added in a whisper.

He twisted his neck and glanced at her, before nudging his horse into a careful trot, following the sounds. They quickly made out a wide stretch of road beside the wall of trees they now went along, their eyes peeled for anything on the path ahead.

Abruptly, the steady staccato of the Saxon drums stopped, so did Tristan's horse. Lithely dismounting without even touching Abigail, the scout led his mount to a tree and tethered his reins to a branch. He then helped her off, or rather, dragged her from the saddle. He shouldered his bow and a quiver of arrows, then unfastened his sheath from the saddle and tied it to his belt.

When he was done, he simply nodded at the direction where they were headed to, and Abigail followed, knowing she would not be able to escape. He moved agilely, as if his feet did not sink into the snow at all, but she struggled to stay on hers.

Meanwhile, her mind was in a frenzy. The Saxons were there, it was most likely Cerdic's army, for it would undoubtedly take a few days for Cynric to find his way around the forest.

Oh, this was too easy. She was practically delivered back to her commander, a simple shout could save her from the Romans now. She would return to her place as the Saxons' scout, and have her life back. Not all was lost. Not yet.

They had reached the edge of the large span of trees, and there, beside a frozen pond, was the Saxon army. Abigail looked at Tristan as he pulled her down onto the snow with him behind a tangle of wild bushes for a sign of fear or anxiety, but all she saw was the same soberness in his dark eyes.

She turned her attention back to the soldiers, who were obviously taking a breather before continuing their journey south to Hadrian's Wall. She quickly spotted Cerdic, his bodyguards around him, drinking from a worn canteen. Instantly, her heart filled with dread. His rugged face, as always, did not show a sign of weariness. She knew that he thought weariness was weakness, and the weak did not deserve to live. She instinctively sighed, loud enough for both of them to hear. Tristan glanced at her, then turned back to massive army in front of them.

--------------------

They thought they had been badly outnumbered, but this was much worse. Tristan glumly surveyed the army, there were at least two hundred soldiers, all strong and vicious. He had a feeling that these were the best of the best, unlike the rather ineffective infantry they had faced the day before on the lake.

The Saxons were only two hours behind their trail at most.

He needed to go back and warn them, then return with a distraction. He eyed a dense forest behind the army, and the top of a nearby hill.

_It would do_, he thought to himself.

He turned to the girl, who was gaping at the Saxons with large, frightened eyes.

"I need you to postpone their leaving," he told the girl in a low but commanding voice.

She tore her gaze from the Saxons to glare at him.

"Why?" she retorted, her voice cracked from the cold.

"I have to go back to get help from the camp, create a diversion," he explained somewhat impatiently.

"Why should I help you, I meant," she pointed out rudely.

Tristan was vexed, he really was. But his face remained grave as he turned to look at the Saxons once again, then back at her, still glaring at him as if it was her second nature.

"You said you were sorry," he said quietly, then got up and ran silently to his horse's hiding place.

--------------------

Abigail was scared. In fact, she was terrified. Her teeth were chattering, despite the fact that she was straining her jaw, trying to stop shaking.

Tristan had been gone for at least half an hour now, and she was certain the Saxons were about to leave. Cerdic never allowed more than an hour's rest.

Abigail felt the urge to cry, but she bit the insides of her lower lip, attempting to inhale deep breaths, but her breathing was shallow with fright.

She did not know why she was so frightened. She did not even know why she was still squatting behind the bushes, staring at the Saxon camp. She did not know why she had not reported to Cerdic the whereabouts of the Romans already.

Perhaps it was the guilt that was weighing her down. The same guilt that kept her from her sleep, the same guilt Tristan saw in her, and was taking advantage of.

She nearly jumped when a loud drum beat rolled. She looked up to see the soldiers getting into line, bearing their heavy swords and shields, standing shoulder to shoulder behind their commander, who was waiting for his horse while slipping on a pair of gloves.

Propelled by a sudden drive of courage, Abigail stumbled out of the bushes before she had the chance to turn back.

"My, my, look what we have here," sneered Cerdic as he watched her untangle herself from a stubborn vine twisted round her ankle.

The soldiers were silent. Their absolute respect and fear of Cerdic kept their mouths closed, but their eyes were on Abigail.

"My lord," she said, bowing her head in respect after disentangling the snaking plant.

"Where is my son?" asked Cerdic gruffly.

"I do not know, my lord," replied Abigail, struggling to keep the fear she was gripped by from her voice.

Cerdic frowned at her. "Why?"

"I have been captured by the Romans."

"Captured?" said Cerdic, his frown deepening, his voice filled with scorn. "I have instructed Cynric to capture the _Romans_."

Abigail took a shaky breath. She had a feeling that Cerdic would not be keen to learn the news that his son had not only let the Romans escape, but that he had also lost miserably- at the hand of seven knights.

At that moment, the messenger of Cynric's infantry galloped into the clearing, obviously bearing the news she was about to deliver.

"My lord," the messenger jumped off his horse and knelt in front of Cerdic.

"Speak."

"My lord," the messenger stammered. "Cynric's infantry has been de-defeated."

Cerdic's eyes narrowed in rage, his voice, however was soft and dangerous. "How?"

"We were at a frozen lake, and fought for some time before the ice broke," he replied, his voice quivering.

"Is Cynric alive?" asked Cerdic in a flat voice.

The messenger nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lord. Cynric directed the army from the shore in his wisdom, he is unharmed."

Abigail could see Cerdic shaking in fury. "How many were there?"

"My lord?"

"Romans," spat Cerdic. "How many Roman dogs was my son against?"

If the messenger had been frightened before, he was now terrified. "There were no Romans. There were only the Sarmatian knights who escorted the Romans from their estate."

"How. Many."

"There were seven Sarmatian knights, and a woman."

Cerdic turned to Abigail, his face white. Not from shock, but from wrath.

"Is it true?" he growled, his jaw clenched.

Abigail bowed. "Yes, my lord."

She had not expected an attack, but he struck at her side, causing her to cry out in pain. Then his fist made contact with her face, narrowly missing her left eye, knocking her onto the snow. Abigail felt her wound on her upper arm tear open, and gasped, tears blurring her vision. She could do nothing in defence of herself, except closing her eyes and biting her lips as to stop herself from crying aloud. Consciousness slowly seeped from her, and the steady blows on her torso became dull and blunt.

Suddenly, everything stopped. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw a few arrows flying into the clearing, each killing a Saxon.

"Ambush!" she heard Cerdic bellow. The Saxons swiftly assembled in packed lines, and marched forward with Cerdic riding in the front.

Her head was pounding as she pushed herself up from the snow, half of her face numb from lying on the freezing snow. She could vaguely make out the rear of Saxon army, but her a film seemed to cover her eyes, and everything was hazy and unfocused.

Gradually, consciousness returned, long enough for her to feel warm liquid running down her face, and the throbbing pain in her upper arm, her abdomen, everywhere.

A wave of nausea washed over her, and instantly, she fell back onto the snow, facing the grey sky.

Slowly, slowly, the grey turned into white, then a blinding flash of light before impenetrable darkness consumed her.

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A grim chapter for a grim authoress. Yes, I am feeling rather grim. I've had a horrendously busy week and I'm dra-a-a-a-ined. Sorta. But not too drained to write a chapter for this story, obviously. I'm sorry if there are any mistakes in this chappie, but I'm too tired to read it over again. Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter, everyone! Fifteen! It's incredible, thank you so much! I have to make the shout-outs short, sorry everyone!

Morwen12: Thank you! Here's your update!

KnigthMaiden: Yes, the book rocks! The getting together part will happen soon ;) Update your stories soon! I miss reading your chapters!

K-Neptune: Thank you!

Mandamirra10: Thank you so much for your encouraging words!

ThePonderosa: I'm glad you liked that! I thought it's very Tristan, glad you think so too :) Well, strictly speaking, it's not "her" hawk. It was given to her after Cerdic killed its master in the first chapter lol.

The sarahnater: Aww, it never hurts to try again :P And I'm glad you think I'm a good writer!

GreenDayzIdiot: Hmm. You changed your name again xD Sigh. I know, I haven't updated DTB for too long, but it's just that I don't have the time to work on all my stories for the time being… I feel so guilty. Anyways, thanks for making me laugh again. Yeah. Tristan's good at making people feel guilty.

Lucillag: Thank you! Hope you liked this chapter!

Kasora: You have a point here. I guess I picture Gawain more of an explosive kind of character, you know. And I'm thinking that Galahad wants to make a stand on his own with Gawain pointing him around in the past. Like the part where Gawain says Galahad's going too. Sort of like that :) Ahhh, you haven't updated HTD yet :( You promised! Well, maybe you're busy, like me… oh well. School sucks, I guess :P I hope to hear from you soon!

Phantom666: Lol… I hope you're not so confused now. Yeah, I agree. Poor, poor Dagonet.

Vamsi: Thanks so much! I'm glad you like the tension between them :D

Lozcollie: Thanks! I hope you enjoyed the update!

Nilmelwen: Aww, it's okay. Lol, she is sort of evil, I'm afraid. More like forced to be evil. Absolutely! It is the turning point. She's starting to feel again, after being numb for a year. Sigh… I'm not sure about updating DTB, considering my lack of inspiration for the story and busy schedule. But I'll try. Very hard ;D

ButterflyKisses266: Thank you so much for your comments and adding The Traitor to your C2! I'm glad you think she's realistic :D

Sarita04: Lol, I'm considering Arthur as a Catholic… and that his mother was a Briton, and that Abigail is a Briton :P I'm glad you think it's a good story though! And yeah, a story. I guess I'll have to bend the rules to make it work. Thanks for sharing your views!

That's all for this week folks! I'll most likely update during the weekend, school's getting scarier by the day :X Alrighty then, see you and remember to review:D


	9. Wounds

Chapter 9: Wounds

When Tristan found her lying on the snow with an almost black pool of blood seeping from beneath her, he thought she was dead.

But her pulse was there, though inconstant and rather faint, when he pressed two fingers on the very cold side of her neck. Even without Bors' help, Tristan managed to lift her onto the saddle in front of him. She was lighter than he expected. With her unconscious form in his arms, they galloped back toward the coastline with all the strength that was left in their faithful steeds.

It did not take them long, only three hours or so, to catch up with the caravan, now moving faster in the more tolerant weather of the coast. Arthur was relieved to see them alive, but his tired face registered shock when he saw the lifeless girl in Tristan's arms, blood soaked through the torn sleeve of her tunic and staining his cloak.

Arthur looked at his scout for an answer, and his silence promised an explanation.

The girl was moved to the cart where Guinevere and the boy were, which was now driven by Galahad and his horse. The Woad and boy were quickly relocated to the Romans' royal carriage, and Tristan left the girl to the Roman widow to wash her wounds. He had learnt the arts of healing almost as well as Dagonet, and he would attend to her later.

He then remounted his tired horse, letting him stretch his neck on a long rein, his nose almost touching the ground while he walked in leisurely strides. Arthur drew his horse back to ride alongside Tristan, his face etched with concern.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded. All Tristan told him when he galloped into the camp that morning was to get the people moving, and then left with Bors and a few packs of spare arrows, which had, obviously, been spent.

Tristan ran a hand over his face, rubbing away clotted dirt and sweat. In a hoarse voice, he said, "We came across the Saxons."

Arthur nodded. "I guessed as much."

"They have a full army with them," he continued grimly. "They didn't know, but they were right on our tail, headed straight to the coastline. They would've cut our path a mile or so back."

He stopped for a moment, and Arthur waited patiently. He knew that Tristan was tired, though his face was set, determinedly passive.

"I had to get back and warn you. I left her there to prolong their departure," his voice had gotten lower, as if he did not want to be overheard. "It took more than an hour. But the Saxons were still there. We found a hill near their camp, and started our ambush."

"Must have taken them by surprise," Arthur smiled a little.

Tristan nodded. "We killed a handful, and thrown their off our scent- for the moment. We should have at least two days' advantage. The woods we led them into isn't easy to rid of."

"Was she with them?" asked Arthur, cocking his head to the cart.

Tristan shook his head. "She was badly beaten up when we went back to for her. The Saxons aren't a merciful kind."

Arthur nodded. He glanced at the scout, who was looking straight ahead where Gawain and Lancelot were leading the caravan, and knew that it was all the talking he intended to do that day.

"We should reach Hadrian's Wall by tomorrow if we keep moving today," said Arthur. "Take some rest."

It would not be long until he needed Tristan to go scouting again, both knew that. Tristan gave a curt nod and wheeled his horse around, headed to the cart. Galahad acknowledged him with a slight tip of the head, and Tristan did not bother return it. Leaping off the saddle and onto the driver's seat, he tethered the reins to the cart, and sat down beside Galahad.

"Hungry?" he asked.

Tristan nodded and the young knight tossed him a loaf of bread bundled in cloth. He tore the hard loaf into large chunks, and wordlessly ate his much-needed meal. Now that he was sitting on something solid, he relaxed his stiff limbs, and let exhaustion set in. His shoulders immediately ached from the grueling activity of firing arrows towards the sky he and Bors had conducted as a source of diversion, and his neck felt as if it were tied to a string which was tighter than the one on his bow.

Stifling a groan, Tristan stuffed another lump of tasteless bread into his mouth. He was tired. Something he seldom felt when he was on a mission, when he was alone with his horse and hawk, with no knowledge of what laid ahead of him. Exhaustion had taken over the thrill of danger. So had death.

He was tired. Very tired.

"When will we reach the Wall?" Galahad interrupted the silence after a while.

"Tomorrow. Before nightfall."

Another nod. Tristan listened to the steady creak of wood as the cart rolled forward, the horses' hooves making soft noises every time they sank into the snow and were drawn up again. Such soothing sounds. Every rock lulled him further into closing his eyes-

"My lord?"

Tristan turned around and found himself face to face with Marius's wife, her pale face lined with concern.

"She's coming round, but her wound on her right arm is bleeding profusely," said Fulcinia quietly. "It needs to be stitched."

"Will you do it?" he asked, abandoning the last of his bread.

"I am not experienced in that area," she admitted.

Tristan nodded and turned to Galahad. Without another word, Galahad shoved a worn wooden box into his hands.

It was a battered, small box with a rusting bolt. Tristan instantly recognized it as Dagonet's healing box, its jagged surface familiar to all the men carved with Sarmatians symbols. Everyone of them had seen the box too many times. Painful times. The two knights locked eyes for a moment, the wooden box carrying much more than what could be said in words.

Galahad dropped his gaze first, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat uncomfortably. Evenly, Tristan turned around and climbed into the cart, clutching the box, while Fulcinia held the flap up for him.

The girl was lying down on the wooden floor of the cart, a fine handkerchief embroidered with Latin characters on her forehead, blankets piled on top of her sweating body. Part of her tunic's sleeve was ripped off, revealing the festering wound which was resting on a cushion of old clothes. It was emitting yellow fluids as well as blood, the brims black from the cold it was exposed to.

Frowning, Tristan knelt down to take a closer of the wound. It looked much worse than it had been three days ago, when it was a mere cut. It had torn open to a nasty gash, and it undoubtedly needed to be stitched.

"Do you require my assistance?" asked Fulcinia in a soft voice, kneeling beside him.

Tristan shook his head, and she took her leave. Opening the box, he found the supplies he needed- a threaded needle, a match and bandages.

As he washed his hands in the shallow basin that had been prepared by Fulcinia, the girl stirred, muttering words under her breath. He stopped to look at her. A cold sweat had broken out on her forehead, a few drops of respiration slid from under the handkerchief, and down behind her ear. Only one word escaped her mouth. She said it repeatedly, louder each time until he heard it loud and clear.

Dolores.

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She was there. On the beach, picking shells. Small waves lapped upon her bare feet, and her favourite little white dress billowing in the gentle summer breeze.

_They loved the seaside in the summer. They went there once or twice every year when the weather was warm, and it always guaranteed a relaxing afternoon._

_"Dolores?" Abigail called._

_The child turned around, Abigail could see her now. Her unsmiling face, the dear face she had not seen for so long._

_"Dolores!"_

_She was clutching a handful of seashells, some broken, some complete. She stared at Abigail in her solemn way, the way father always teased her about._

_"Dolores! No!"_

_She was walking out into the water now, still hanging onto her assortment of seashells, wading into the shallow water. Abigail ran after her, calling her name. She continued to walk, but the water only reached her knee. Abigail had lost her footing already, fraying her arms urgently to keep herself from drowning in the cold sea._

_"Dolores!"_

Her eyes flew open. Her ears ringing with the sound of rushing waves, and the name she had been calling out. Visions of the dream were still fresh in her mind, the tranquil beach, the soaring gulls, the little girl. Her sister.

Dolores.

As the remains of her dream faded, she became aware of the fact that she was lying on her back, her breath heavy, her forehead cold with sweat. She did not feel anything else, everything seemed numb and distant.

She tried moving her arms, and through the numbness shot a burning pain. She winced, not only from the pain on her arm, but also from the foggy heaviness of her head.

Where was she? Her eyes were out of focus, and she blinked a few times rapidly, trying to rid of the haze that clouded her vision. It only seemed to worsen her sight. Frustrated, she squeezed her eyes shut again.

Her ears started to detect noise around her. The groans of aged and rotten wood, the snort of horses, a dry cough, her own breathing.

What had happened? She vaguely remembered meeting Cerdic, being assaulted, then knocked out cold. She could not remember anything beyond that.

Once again, she opened her eyes. To her relief, the haze was gone, and tattered, dirty rugs hanging in an arc met her gaze.

They looked strangely familiar, but she could not recall where she had seen them before. Her head ached, and her thoughts in disarray. But they were so familiar! She could almost tell where she had seen them. But her head- it felt ready to collapse.

Heaving a sigh, she attempted to bring a hand up to her head, but the excruciating that followed caused her to yield immediately. The pain seemed to run all the way down to her very toes, gushing through her veins, bringing life and sensation back to every muscle in her body.

"Don't move."

Upon hearing the low, rough voice, Abigail knew where she was. Turning her head towards the source of the voice, she found herself looking at Tristan, who was kneeling next to her, holding a needle over a burning match.

She was back in the cart. She felt warmth radiating from her body, and saw a blanket draped across her torso and another across her legs. Only her arm felt chilled. She again turned her face to the right, and nearly gasped upon the sight of her wound.

It was ghastly. It was one of the worst wounds she herself had ever come across, with a glistening layer of blood and fluid coating the long and narrow gash. She saw a basin sitting near to her, and tried to reach out for it. However, reaching over meant putting pressure on her wound, and the pain once again caused her to give up.

Tristan did not hide the fact that he saw her move, but he did nothing to help. He continued to hold the sharp needle over the small flame, which was now glowing with the least hint of red. She noticed that it was threaded, and dread filled her heart.

He intended to stitch up her wound. The mere thought of needle going through flesh caused her to shudder. She had seen the Saxon healer stitch soldiers up, and it looked painful enough. She could not imagine the pain. She dared not think of it.

"Get up," Tristan's quiet voice interrupted her thoughts.

She eyed the needle he held between his thumb and index finger with exaggerated disgust, trying to hide her fear. She waited for him to help her up, but when he made it clear that he had no intention to assist her, she leaned her weight onto her left side, biting her lips as pain shot through her stomach. Cerdic must have kicked her there.

Stubbornly ignoring the many other stings and aches that burst from various parts of her body, she struggled to sit up. Her back felt as if it would snap in two any moment, and her left arm, which she was using to support herself, was apparently unfit for the job.

"Care to lend a hand?" she asked through gritted teeth, mustering all her strength to glare at him.

Tristan looked up from his needle, glowing red-hot, and leaned forward to jerk her upright, then shoved her against the wall. Abigail hissed in pain as her back hit the cold wall, feeling dizzy from the abrupt change in her posture. She immediately felt chilly without the blankets, and shivered involuntarily.

The scout dragged the basin to her right side, picked up the rag resting inside, and brought it up to her wound. Abigail flinched from the sting the water, and still more, his coarse rub, caused. He wiped the cloth across the wound a few more times, until the basin of water had vessels of her blood floating in it.

Abigail's heart pounded wildly as he blew out the match, shaking the needle as if to cool it off. Casually, he turned to her and grasped her arm. She scowled at him, and at the needle, her lips pressed tightly together at a grim line.

"What are you doing?" she asked, though she knew the answer. She did not even bother to keep the panic out of her voice.

"I need to stitch you up, it will get infected," he replied tonelessly, twisting her arm slightly, angling the needle.

"It's already infected," she protested obstinately.

He glanced at her, then back to the wound. "Then it shouldn't get worse."

She thought her heart stopped beating as the hot needle slipped under her skin, the coarse thread grazing her tender tissue. She sank her fingernails into her bruised palm as the needle slid under her skin again, pain fighting against pain. Tears threatened to fall, and her nose stung unpleasantly.

"Stop," she whispered harshly.

He ignored her, his hold on her arm tightening, and for the third time, the sharp end glided into her skin. Gasping, her left hand shot out, seizing his wrist brusquely, her pain triggering a new surge of energy.

"Don't touch me," she spat, a tear trickling down her face.

Tristan continued with his task, as if Abigail's hand did not exist, weaving the threaded needle in and out of her torn skin. Blinding pain struck her, and she impulsively dug her fingernails into his wrist.

She kept her hand on his wrist as he moved the needle. In, out. In, out. She felt every entrance and every exit the needle made. She felt the fiber of the thread rubbing against her raw skin.

Pain. All she felt was pain. Scorching her skin, testing her limits, teasing her, as if asking, _how long could you hold on?_

So she let go. She relaxed her strained jaw, her back, her wound up stomach. She let go of Tristan's wrist, and he looked at her for a moment. She let her eyelids fall and her shoulders sag as she embraced the torment that was tearing at her.

Why should she fight it when it was clearly a lost battle even before it had begun?

Tristan worked faster without her resistance, and earlier than she had anticipated, he gave the needle a decisive tug, then cut the thread with his dagger.

Abigail felt as if she had fought a hundred battles, her breath laboured and her head faint. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked down at her newly stitched wound.

The black stitches were neat and followed the curve of her wound, holding her arm together for the moment. She could not help but wonder glumly if it would leave its mark even after it had healed.

She did not like the idea of another scar. Another imprint of her miserable life.

She looked up to direct her bitterness at Tristan, but he had already left.

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Hello! Sorry for not updating for more than a week, I've been busy and not really that inspired to write. I hope this chapter was okay. Not my best, definitely. I was racking my brains thinking of what to write besides the "pain" Abigail was going through. I don't think I pulled it off. Sigh. I'll do better next time. I promise. And I have just skimmed through this chapter twice, please excuse any careless mistakes.

Thank you for the very sweet comments! Here are your shout-outs:

MORWEN12: Here's an update, I hope you enjoyed it :)

K-Neptune: There, Tristan saved her ;)

Mandamirra10: Yes, she's breaking down. I'm glad you think she's a great character!

KnightMaiden: Blocks suck! But I love your latest chapter, take your time with the updates :) That'll be pretty soon, the story won't be going much longer… less than 15 chapters, I should think :)

MedievalWarriorPrincess: I love your pen name! And thank you for your compliments! I hope you enjoyed this update.

Kasora: Lol, great idea with Phaedra! I've always seen Galahad as the cute one. You know, the one whose hair you ruffle when you go by lol. I'm pathetic xD Yes, yes, DTB badly needs an update… sigh. I'll try tomorrow. I promise. Those cookies do have an effect, not to mention Tristan xD Ah, enjoy your holidays, my friend! School's pure torture. Post that story of yours soon! I can't wait to read it! And remember your update-every-two-days promise! –huggles-

greenDayzIdiot: Hehe, I'm glad you like her now! An even softer side of her this time, she's not as numb as she seems to be –nods- Gosh! Your school's bio lab burned down! That's both bad and good news at the same time, I'll bet ;D Update your story soon, I miss reading your updates! –hugs-

the sarahnater: I hope you liked this chapter :D

butterflyKisses26: I hope this chapter wasn't too disappointing ;)

Eric'sImaginaryFriend: Aww, I'm glad I got you thinking! I tried thinking from her point of view too, and I got really confused lol. I guess she's really confused herself, so she's being evil at one time and sorry at the other. I hope you liked this chapter and thanks for reviewing!

Nilmelwen: I totally agree. I think it's partly because Tristan is the one who captured her. Lol, I would be scared to death if I were her, Cerdic looks like a nasty man in the movie. Thank you for understanding! I'll be attempting a chapter for DTB soon, let's hope I'll manage to write something that isn't shit ;)

I'll try to update asap, but again, with my hectic school life, I can't guarantee anything. Do review though! I love to hear from you! You have no idea how much motivation you give me. That's all for now, have a nice week everyone!


	10. The Sea Calls

Chapter 10: The Sea Calls

Abigail awoke to the sound of waves, splashing rhythmically against whatever they happened to meet at the shore. The sound was so pleasant, she could hear the surge of energy in each wave, she could smell the exciting scent of salted air, she could almost see the rush of water and the white foam as the currents leapt ashore.

She was about to drift to sleep when a loud crash brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and discovered that it was night, and it took her a while to adjust to the pitch blackness. The flap of the cart was down, and she was snuggled in warm blankets, her head resting on a bundle of cloth. She was aware that she felt exhausted, but also that her wound did not hurt half as much as it did when Tristan stitched it up.

Another crash of waves. It was too much, she must get up. The sea was calling to her.

Slowly, carefully, she did, aches and stings awakening. She grimaced at a particularly sharp ache in her stomach. Cerdic must have kicked her hard.

Abigail took one of the blankets and wrapped it around her shoulders. She found her boots by the flap and pulled them on, the tube of the shoes icy cold. She shivered but drew aside the flap, bracing herself as a gust of ocean breeze greeted her. A faint smile touched her lips as she slid off the cart, and she kept a grip on the wood to steady herself. Her knees felt weak and even the blanket around her body felt heavy, but the determination in her heart to lay eyes on the sea was burning too brightly for her turn back.

They had made camp in a clearing with evergreen trees surrounding it, shielding the refugees from the strong winds blowing from the sea. Abigail knew where the sea was, the sounds of the waves were loud and sweet, and she felt an invisible force tug her towards the line of the trees.

Every step was laborious, and with every step, she felt her heart beating faster with anticipation. She passed by groups of peasants huddled together on the cold ground, remains of fires beside their sleeping forms. Horses snorted softly and hung their heads low, resting their tired limbs. She walked quietly, her footfalls soft so as not to trigger any potential pain in her battered body.

Stepping beyond the arching tree line, Abigail found that they were nesting beside a grassy cliff, the strong tides of the sea roaring in the heights below.

There was a broken log conveniently lying near the brim of the cliff, and Abigail sat down on it, her breath catching as she looked out into the sea, its dark waters cradling the soft glow of the moon. The bend of the coastline rose from the ocean in tall cliffs, its perilous sides carved deeply by brutal waves and unforgiving weather. Abigail felt a tad disappointed for no sandy beaches were in sight. What she would give to set foot on the soft sand of the seashore!

Her thoughts halted abruptly, and she mentally scolded herself. She had been so thrilled to see the sea that she had momentarily forgotten the pain and loss it had brought to her- the Saxons. The sea gave her the happiest times of her life, and it did not hesitate to take her dearest from her either.

She closed her eyes as tears welled up behind her eyelids. The lap of waves was cruel in her ears, and she cursed the sea. She cursed herself for loving it so.

For a moment, visions of that day drifted into her mind. Neville and Francesca's mischievous screams, George's echoing laugh, Dolores's soft hand in hers, mother's soothing smile, father's playful wink. Things that she had buried deep in her heart, things that were being unearthed and thrown at her with each thundering roll of the sea.

--------------

He was surprised to see her there, shoulders hunched over her knees, a grey blanket thrown over her shivering shoulders, her blond hair rippling down her back and almost white in the moonlight.

She was so worn down earlier in the morning that she had been oblivious for the whole day. He had thought she would be incapable of movement for at least a few days, yet there she was.

He silently watched her, standing in the shadows. She was still, her back to him, only her hair swaying to the winds.

Suddenly, she lifted her head, turning her face. He thought she had realized his presence, but he followed her gaze and found that she was merely admiring the moon, its silver beauty hanging in an elegant arc in the company of shimmering stars.

He continued watching her as she closed her eyes, and he saw her let out a breath, her shoulders sinking deeper with the sigh. Her face was white in the dim illumination of the moon, with a tender, faraway expression, which was a dramatic contrast to the stony glares he always received from her.

It was hard to picture her as a murderer this way.

Following her lead, he closed his eyes as well. The sea held memories. His childhood home was near to the Black Sea, and amidst his blurry remembrance of home, he recalled the many visits he made with Dagonet to the seaside in summer to bring fresh fish to their village. He could recall diving into the black depths, feeling the cold black water rush by their sides, the thrill of being underwater. Each boy would hold one end of a fishing net knitted by their mothers, and they swam in one direction then the opposite, tangling fish in the coarse threads until they needed to surface for air again- fifteen years ago.

He snapped out of his trance, and to his displeasure, found the girl glaring at him. A cold air had settled in her face, and she was sitting with her back straight, shoulders thrown back, her chin held high. Her pride was almost frustrating, the defiance of those glaring eyes set to wear the patience out of people.

He considered returning to the camp, but furrowed his brow slightly and walked towards the girl. He knew she had wanted to turn him away, why should he let her triumph?

She dropped her glare as he stopped beside her. Her shoulders tensed and she looked away, into the black ocean. She was feeling uncomfortable, he could tell. A strong breath of wind washed passed them, and a strand of hair clung stubbornly to her face. He watched her as she instinctively lifted her right hand, but stopped midway and winced visibly. She had clearly forgotten about her wound.

Tristan knelt down beside her and pulled out her right arm. She bit her lips and tried to pull back, but he knew it was too painful for her so to do.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked quietly.

As expected, she tossed him a glare. "What do you think?" she retorted haughtily.

Frowning, he pushed aside her blanket and cloak, and found that she had changed into a new tunic. It was of rich and soft material, he was sure that Fulcinia had lent it to her. The sleeve was wide and billowy, and he managed to push it up her arm without having her attack his wrist again for the pain.

The marks on his wrist were still there, though faded to pink- the girl dug hard.

"Hold the sleeve," he told her, and she obliged, but not before sending him another hard glance.

Swallowing his annoyance, he vented some of it by jerking her arm to a rather awkward angle so he could see the wound clearly in the moonlight. He saw her chew her lips from the corner of his eye, but she made no sound. She had shown enough weakness to him.

He turned his attention back to her wound, which already looked better. At the very least, it was dry and the stitches were holding fast. If she did not put unnecessary force on it, the stitches could be taken out by the end of the week. Even earlier, if she was lucky. He decided that he would keep an eye on it.

Would he even be here a week from now? He doubted it. His plans were to set off once his few belongings had been packed and his horse had been given adequate rest. He had no intention of lingering on this wretched island anymore- he had been here long enough. Fifteen long years had been too much.

But Dagonet- they had talked about going home, when they sat at the tavern, downing ale. Most people did not even know they were talking, their quiet, precise words were always drowned in laughter from Gawain or complaints from Bors. But they had talked, and they had been planning to trace the southern coastline of the Black Sea, for their villagers, like all other Sarmatians, were nomads. There was no knowing where they were now, or if they even _were_. But they were holding onto hope, or they _had_ been. It was only him now.

His fingers stopped, and he suddenly realized that he had been rubbing the crusted blood gently away from the gash. Awkwardly, he stiffened and pulled away, dusting the remaining red powder from her arm. He could not see her face, she had turned away from him, from the sea, but she let the sleeve down. He roughly straightened her coat and blanket, then made to stand up, but a glimmer caught his eye and he stopped.

She was crying, two lines of tears sliding down her face silently. She gave a shuddering breath, and leaned forward to rise, but Tristan caught her arm. She whipped around to glare at him, her eyes watery, a few threads of blond curls sticking to her pale face.

He held her piercing gaze, as he held her arm. He saw her yielding, and she soon lowered her eyes, another tear came tumbling down the side of her cheek, drawing attention to a purpled bruise.

On impulse, Tristan raised his free hand to her face, brushing her tears away with his thumb. Her skin was tender under his calloused hands, and he felt her shrinking away from his touch. He tightened his grip on her arm, and she lifted her eyes to look at him again. But her gaze was soft and bewildered, as he continued to stroke away the stray tears. There were bruises and scratches as well, and as he ran his fingers over them, she shuddered, whether it was from pain or from his touch, he knew not.

Sliding his hand down the side of her face and under her chin, he supported her head with a single finger, their gazes locked. Neither were breathing as Tristan's eyes wandered down to her cracked lips, and noticed a dark bruise on her lower lip. Lightly, he traced the bruise, moving soothingly. She closed her eyes, and he felt her release a breath she had been holding.

The spell was abruptly broken when her eyes snapped open, and suddenly, the hostility was there again. Hoisting herself to her feet, she glared at him, wrapping her blanket protectively around her thin body, putting distance between them.

Tristan opened his mouth to say her name, but it occurred to him that he did not even know her name. She never told him.

She turned around and walked as fast as she could, back to the shelter of the trees. Tristan stared at her back, her hair catching the wind. He slowly stood up, reliving the feel of her skin, and remembering the fear in her eyes.

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Yay! I finished this chapter! I never thought I'd finish it today, I have horse-riding competitions both today and tomorrow, and I have two tests next week, so it's a sorta miracle! Wow, it's chapter 10 already!

As you can see, Tristan is starting to feel something he shouldn't be feeling… ah, and Abi feels something too. I interjected something about Tristan's past, a connection with the ocean, something Abi's connected to as well. I hope you liked that part about Dagonet, I thought it'd be a nice twist :) A rather short chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it!

Thank you all for the sweet comments! This story is really going strong, thank you for motivating me with your lovely reviews!

K-Neptune: Thank you so much!

GreenDayzIdiot: I'm glad you like the tension and conflict! I was getting scared that there is too much, thus the "tender" moments this chapter ;) Meh, school's weird for me too lol. I'm sorry about the writer's block! -gives you Galahad cookies- I hope it'll be gone soon:D

KnightMaiden: I'm really looking forward to your updates:D Hmm, I'll think about a sequel. If I get any ideas I'll most definitely write one! Ah, I've killed enough knights for a lifetime -sniff-

Mysticpig: Thanks! Lol, I don't have time to update DTB as well… maybe next weekend :)

The sarahnater: Glad you did lol!

Lozcollie: I have every intention of continuing it, don't worry :)

MedievalWarriorPrincess: Hehe, thanks! Yup, school is really important… and annoying xD

Phantom666: No problem! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Kasora: Aww, really? You think it's moving? -huggles- Glad you think so! Ah, a very elaborate dissection of the knights lol. Very true about Lancey! Ah, evil exams! Good luck with them and I hope you're enjoying the last days of freedom very much! Can't wait for your update hun! And yeah, I've kept Tristan ;) He says hi again.

ButterflyKisses26: Aww, thank you for your compliments! I'm so glad you like the exchange between them! Really? A tender version? Lol, I'm glad to hear that! I hope you liked the true tender thing this chapter :D Update your story soon too! I love it!

OK, gotta run. It's almost time to go! Wish me luck on my competitions lol!


	11. Freedom

Chapter 11: Freedom

Hadrian's Wall. Tristan had not felt such relief before in seeing the massive architecture, stretching and winding like a grey snake over miles of green land. Now, with an orange sky as a backdrop, it seemed to glow before the setting sun, as if on fire, warming his cold and stiff limbs.

The villagers cried with joy upon seeing the Wall, singing praises to their gods, and immediately picked up pace. Tristan could see soldiers at the fort busy with the gates, and before long metallic screeches sounded their arrival.

Strings of curious villagers crowded around the caravan, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Tristan recognized Bors' children and spotted Vanora, looking more concerned than angry for once. Bors looked straight ahead, ignoring the enthusiastic yells of his little bastards, and even the gentle, lingering hand of his wife on his thigh as he rode by. Tristan understood- the pain was still too near.

The street narrowed, and Tristan found himself riding beside Lancelot. The normally cocky knight hung his head, one hand idly resting on his horse's neck while the other held the reins loosely. His eyes were bloodshot, his proud shoulders slumped. The scout raised his chin and stared ahead at Arthur's back- straight and stiff as a board, his façade masking his dejection and guilt he felt inside.

The stables came into sight, and only the knights, the horse carrying Dagonet's body and the carriages entered the courtyard separated from the village by tall, iron-wrought gates. Peasants gathered outside the courtyard, watching intently as the men halted their horses next to each other in a disciplined line, and the carriages rumbled to a halt by the entrance.

Jols along with a few stablehands appeared, respectfully holding the horses while the knights dismounted. As Tristan's tired feet hit the cold ground, the Bishop came bustling out of the crowd and into the courtyard along with his Roman attendants, his brightly-coloured silken priestly robes an ironic contrast to the dark atmosphere.

"Ah! Christ be praised!" he cried, throwing his hands towards the heavens to emphasize his point. "Against all odds, you have triumphed! Come Alecto, let me see you!"

From the luxurious carriage, the young boy stepped down warily, coldly dodging the Bishop's zealous greetings with frosty eyes and tight lips. An awkward and harsh silence descended on the stone courtyard, and at the moment, the boy Lucan hopped off the Roman carriage where he had stayed for the remaining of the journey, past the guards and ran straight to Dagonet, Guinevere in pursuit.

"Boy!" shouted one of the guards, unsheathing his sword and started to chase after him.

There was a metallic brush of metal against leather, and Gawain's dagger was at the guard's neck.

"Touch him and die," Tristan heard the furious knight hiss menacingly.

The Bishop laughed nervously, trying to hide the disgust in his eyes while he regarded Gawain, who coolly whipped away his weapon and returned it to its sheath. Lucan was weeping at Dagonet's side, reaching up to touch the giant hand that was uncovered by cloth gently, Guinevere's hands wrapped protectively around his shaking shoulders. Tristan felt an ache in his heart as he watched the scene unfold, the young boy hanging onto the limp hand, brushing his wet cheeks against it. Then, he noticed the big, black ring, and carefully slid it from Dagonet's finger. Cradling it, he looked up at Guinevere, and she forced a weak smile, brushing his tears from his face, while her own tumbled down her face.

"Great knights!" the Bishop interrupted the silence rather timidly, flapping his hands. "You are free now! Bring me the papers!"

Tristan watched a two soldiers approach, one holding the red, square leather box he had seen before, that night at the Round Table. A soldier unlatched the box, revealing seven white scrolls of paper- their freedom.

"Your papers of safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire!" continued the Bishop with feigned keenness, gesturing towards Arthur. "Take it, Arthur! Take it!"

All eyes settled on Arthur, his face a stony grey, his jaw strained. He did not move for a moment, then he stepped forward, each step echoing in the silent courtyard. He stopped in front of the Bishop, his green eyes boring into the elder man's.

"Bishop Germanius," he said quietly and slowly, as if tasting the gall of every word, his tone dead. "_Friend_ of my father."

With another steely look, Arthur swept out of the courtyard, his cape billowing behind him as he stormed away. As if on cue, Lancelot took his commander's place and plucked the scrolls from the box, then turned to his brothers.

Tristan's heart pounded as Lancelot handed one to each man. Gawain, Galahad… he straightened his back, and met Lancelot's eyes as he thrust the scroll forward, a fierce fire in his eyes.

Reaching out, Tristan wrapped his fingers around the white paper. His freedom, finally. After so much blood shed, so many lives taken, so many sleepless nights- it was in his hands.

He lowered his eyes and stared at it. The snowy white parchment was smudged with dirt from his hands, as his supposed joy was tainted with the agony of Dagonet's death. It was not supposed to turn out this way.

The freedom he was now clutching did not seem as alluring as he expected it to be. It was, after all, a mere sheet of paper. A certificate pronouncing the end of slavery for him.

A piece of parchment. His fate was sealed by this piece of parchment.

"Bors."

The bald knight was glaring at the ground, his hands held stiffly at his sides.

"Bors," Lancelot said again.

As if compelled by an invisible force to turn his head, Bors slowly did so, his watering eyes staring hard into Lancelot's. The latter held up two scrolls, swallowing hard.

"For Dagonet," he said, trying hard to suppress the emotions in his strained voice.

Bors looked down at the parchments held against his chest, defiance etched his sleep-deprived face.

"This doesn't make him a free man," he spat, snatching the scrolls. He turned to the bewildered Bishop, his eyes ablaze with fury and hurt. "He is already a free man."

Throwing one of the scrolls at his feet, Bors yelled, "He's dead!"

--------------

The stone floor was cold and hard, and Abigail shifted in hopes of finding a more comfortable spot to sit on, but it was just colder ground, and she cursed under her breath.

Her cell was clean and dry, but empty, as the prison was. There was not a sound in the stony dungeon, not even the scuffle of rats or other creatures. There was just the quiet, steady rhythm of her breathing, and the silence rang in her ear, making them ache unpleasantly.

The last rays of dusk were dimming, and Abigail glared at the small, barred window on the wall. Soon all would be dark, for there were no torches as far as she could see, and she knew no one would bother to light the dungeons for a single prisoner.

Her stomach kept reminding herself that she had not eaten for a whole day, and her throat felt dry and bitter. She was shivering without her cloak, which had been flung to the ground as she was dragged here by some Roman guards.

Gritting her teeth, she tilted her head, resting her skull against the wall.

Did she deserve this? She could not help thinking. Her thoughts kept wandering back to the day before, when she could have ran away with the Saxons, told them their bearings, and killed the whole caravan without fuss. But she stayed, did she not? She stayed and- good heavens- _she saved their lives_.

Silently, the remains of dusk slipped away, engulfing her in darkness. She let out a small growl, anger and silence tearing up her soul. How dared they cage her like an animal when she had spared their lives!

But then, they had spared her life. She had expected to be killed, especially under Tristan's sword. She had been short on him, and she had seen his fury break through his emotionless face several times.

_You have no honour. You are not worthy of death._

Salty tears stung her weary eyes, and she inhaled sharply. _Did they not understand?_ She thought fiercely, squeezing her eyes shut. _She did not have a choice, why could they not understand?_

Footsteps disrupted her thoughts, and she stilled. She could clearly distinguish two pairs of feet, one steady and hard, the other light. She opened her eyes, and saw light going her way.

Arthur and Tristan appeared at the iron gate, both bearing a torch. She watched Arthur open the gate with a scowl, not budging from her corner. Bending so he could enter without hitting his head, Arthur approached her slowly, his face fatigued and grave. The other knight stayed outside the cell, his gaze somewhere in the darkness.

Abigail recalled the night before, and a flush coloured her cheeks. She wondered what came over her that moment, when she let him touch her. Was it the spell of the ocean? The peacefulness of night? Or was it him?

Arthur was now crouching in front of her, his eyes holding her open glare evenly. She stared at his weathered face- it was so tired, so sad, leaden with guilt.

"I believe I owe you my thanks," he said in a low voice, but it sounded like a shout in the soundless dungeon.

Abigail stared hard at him in disbelief. She had killed her brother, but now he came to thank her himself. Yes, it was what she_ thought_ she deserved- but in truth, _did_ she deserve it? Was one good deed enough to undo her sins?

"You are free to go once your wound is healed," continued Arthur, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "You are free to find a path that leads you away from your past, to start anew."

Arthur stopped, and looked away. Then he looked back at her, studying her face.

"You are young, you have so much to live for," he said quietly.

Abigail could not suppress the sigh that slipped from her lips. She was young, she was just past eighteen winters, but Arthur was wrong. She had nothing to live for. No paths could lead her away from her haunting past, every single one led her to the same destination- a future of emptiness, of certain death- most likely in the hands of a Saxon.

No. He did not understand.

"Tristan," Arthur interrupted the silence after a few moments. "Find her a room."

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He knew there was only one room which stood empty. Arthur knew it as well, and he seemed determined enough to let her stay. If that was his commander's order, so be it.

They walked in silence, both of their trained footfalls light as they mounted the winding stone stairs that led to their quarters. He heard her struggle a bit with the steps- she was exhausted, though she tried hard not to look like it. Her chin was held high, her back straight, shoulders back.

He halted at the top of the stairs and watched her. Her hair was slung back, tied up with a string. She kept her left hand on the wall, and she walked laboriously, a scowl on her brow.

Suddenly, she stopped, and tilted her chin to glare at him. In the light of the torch, her face was paler than before, and her sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce his.

Wordlessly, he reached out, offering her his hand. He saw her astonishment, but she quickly hid it and stubbornly ignored his outstretched arm, and quickly did away with the remaining steps.

Aloofly, Tristan retrieved his arm and led her down the corridor without even a glance in her way. The quarters were empty, the doors open and the rooms dark. The men were most probably down at the tavern. There was no place to go.

He stopped at the last door on the right, and walked inside, holding his torch high.

It was a tidy room with the privilege of a private bathroom. The window was shut, and Tristan decided it was best to remain that way. At the table beside it, he lit two of the candles lined neatly against the wall, and swept his eyes across the room.

Dagonet did not own much. Tristan immediately spotted the chest he kept under his bed, and a few daggers on the window ledge. He collected his friend's few possessions with great care, knowing that Dagonet treated his precious belongings in the same manner.

He had always been gentle and patient. Tristan remembered the countless times he lost his temper when he was young, angry with the injustice and brutality of his life, and Dagonet had been there to comfort him, to put a hand across shoulders and give him a knowing smile. Dagonet had always looked out for him, he always had.

The scratch of shoes against wood brought Tristan out of his reverie, and he found the girl staring at him.

"Do you need anything?" he asked stiffly.

She glanced at the window, then back at him, and shook her head once.

Tristan nodded curtly and moved towards the door, but she stopped him, and he turned around.

"Inform me of Dagonet's burial," she said quietly, her eyes downcast.

Surprised, Tristan tried to find her eyes, but she resolutely turned away.

With one last glance at her back, he strode across the room, and closed the door behind him.

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Hey guys, sorry for the short update, I'm busy with a history test. Yeah, tests again. I hate them! Ugh! Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter! You guys rock! My apologies that I won't be replying individually, I'm very tired and I still have tons of things to do. Yeah, life is hectic. Oh, in case you're wondering, I won 4th in the jumping competition last week :D I don't know about my dressage competition yet, I left before the results were announced. But I'll know tomorrow.

Just a note, I won't be following the movie for the following few chapters. Remember that the Saxons have been thrown off course thanks to Abi and Tristan (and Bors), so it will be a few days before the Saxons arrive. Yeah, and that's it! Remember to review! My reviewers drive me on :)


	12. Scars

Chapter 12: Scars

Abigail felt something soft below her head, pressing against her cheek. Something dry, warm, _clean_- and for the first time in months, her head was not resting against mud nor leaves nor the rough bark of trees.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, fearing it was all a dream and that all the warmth would fade away from her. But it did not, and she found herself looking at the corner of a wooden nightstand, and from the corner of her eye, was the soft fabric of the pillow she was resting her cheek on.

Unwilling to wake up yet, she closed her eyes again, relishing the comfort. Lazily, she turned so she faced the ceiling, and started to stretch her arms, but remembered her wound and abruptly dropped them back onto the bed. As if awaking, the wound immediately gave a dull pain, and she groaned quietly.

Turning her head, she glanced at the window, which was closed and fogged from what it seemed the morning mist. The window glowed in a grey light, and Abigail wondered if it was still early or it was just a grey day.

She smiled a little as she recalled the days when she would lie in bed and stare out of the window, which was conveniently next to her bed, guessing whether the day ahead would be drenched in rain or sunshine. She would wait till her mother clanged the kettle impatiently with a wooden spoon, shouting for all of them to get out of bed and help with breakfast. Abigail would be dressing Dolores, and helping Francesca braid her long hair which she refused to have cut. George would be at the shed bringing home an armful of firewood he and father cut every afternoon. Neville would be annoying mother to no ends for permission to go hunting with the men, and father would chuckle as he set the table ready for the first meal of the day.

They would have hot porridge, soft lumps of sweet bread, and milk from Mrs. Hick's goats. It was always noisy business at the table, with the twins arguing over the least of things right from the start of day. George, who always enjoyed picking on the twins, would be teasing them through mouthfuls of bread and gulps of milk. Mother would be nagging at Francesca to keep her hair out of the porridge, and at father to take a hand in controlling his children. He would simply make a stern face, giving each of his children a frown, and all would be silent. Until Neville broke it by laughing outrageously. Then Dolores would complain about their carousing in her young but authoritative voice, and peace would finally descend upon their big family as they devoured their simple but satisfying breakfast together.

Such memories… Abigail realized that she had not thought about her family for a long, long time, for it brought pain, and she did not need any more pain to bear on top of the exhaustion and guilt that haunted her every day since that day.

But that morning, she chose not to be bitter. She closed her eyes and sighed, letting visions of her siblings, her parents, her neighbours, her village flood into her rested mind. She could almost hear the sounds of the village, with goats bleating, children laughing, the distant wash of the sea; she could almost smell the warm scent of smoke from chimneys and fresh bread, the sweet aroma of herbs and flowerbeds; she could almost feel the comfort and happiness she had only known for seventeen long summers of her life- _almost_.

Abigail almost fell asleep under the enchantment of these pleasant thoughts in her head, when the door creaked and her eyes snapped open once more.

At the door, a woman with untamed red hair dressed in peasant clothes stood, her face unsmiling, but not unkind- more cautious than hostile- unlike Tristan. She balanced a tray of bread, cheese and a cup on one hand, and closed the door with the other. She strode across the room to the desk wordlessly, her shoes scraping against the wooden floor.

She gently placed the tray on the table, then turned to face Abigail, running her eyes over her. Abigail did the same guardedly, and she deduced that the woman was in her thirties, the black circles around her eyes and the faint hint of wrinkles on her white face giving her youth away. She had a sharp face, her green eyes stern yet gentle, her lips set at a tight line.

"You should get up, 'tis afternoon," the woman finally broke the silence. Her voice was soft but slightly coarse, as if she had been shouting all day long.

It was a grey day after all. Abigail gave the woman a wary look, and she waited, leaning against the table with her arms folded across her chest, holding her gaze. Then, abruptly, she straightened up her small frame and exited just as abruptly, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Somewhat relieved that she was left alone, Abigail peeled the thick blanket away from her, feeling rather cold as her bare feet touched the hard floor. She picked up the cloak she left on the table before she went to bed the night before and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, then sat down in the single chair and stared gratefully at her simple meal.

The bread was cold, but fortunately, it was still soft. She was also pleased to find that her arm did not hurt as much it did, and she could tear the bread apart with relative ease. The cheese was sweet and filling, and by the time she drained the cup of milk, she was felt warmer and happier than she had been in quite a while.

Pushing the tray to one side, she propped up her elbows on the rough wooden surface of the table, and rested her cheeks in her palms. She gazed out of the window, still misty and rattling every now and then when a strong wind blew. Directly outside the window was a bare tree, its broad branches covered with a curtain of melting snow. Beyond the stone courtyard of the quarters, she saw the stables they had stopped at the day before, where a few figures were brushing apart snow to create a safe path for horses and carriages. The village laid out beyond the stables, clusters of humble huts and fallow farmlands, pillars of smoke rising from chimneys. A strong wall enclosed the entire fort, its weathered stone tops white with frost.

Outside the fort, was Hadrian's Wall. Abigail gazed at it in wonder, though she had seen it yesterday. It was such a magnificent structure, the sheer size of it astonishing. It sat atop endless stretches of plains, with glimpses of green here and there, but otherwise all was grey and dormant till spring.

There, amongst the grey, laid her path.

An unexpected shiver ran down her spine, and she tentatively tightened her grip on the cloak, shrinking further into the little warmth it offered. Suddenly, she felt hollow and cold. Where would she go? She knew the roads well in the north, but not the southern part of Britain.

It did not make a difference anyway. She had no where to go, she had no one to turn to. Everyone she had once known was dead and her home destroyed.

And there were the Saxons. She knew she could never escape from them.

At that point, the door groaned on its hinges again. The same woman entered, her face flushed from the cold, carrying two buckets of water, and a towel and garments hung on her arms.

Abigail stood up to give her a hand- her future could stay where it was – would be- for the moment.

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Another drop of rain trickled off Tristan's nose. Irritably, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, which was wet with sweat and smeared with soil. Then he picked up his spade again, and shoved it into the sodden earth. The soil was heavy with moisture, but Tristan tossed it over his shoulder effortlessly, as if it were dust.

It had been drizzling the whole morning, and it seemed likely to continue. The clouds were grey and heavy with rain, but the heavens were holding back. The rain, though light, soaked through his tunic, and the thick fabric clung to his bent back most unpleasantly. He stopped to brush away a few threads of hair that stuck to his forehead, and looked up at Galahad, who was idly pushing the earth Tristan had dug up into a mound.

The grave was already waist-deep. The lad could do the rest.

"Galahad," called Tristan.

The young knight looked up from his boots, startled. Tristan simply tossed the shovel at his feet, and climbed up from the empty grave.

"Make yourself useful," he told Galahad gruffly and made for the fort.

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Tristan's room was dark when he entered as the curtains were drawn, and he did not bother with them after slamming the door shut. His boots left small puddles of water on the wooden floor, and he stooped down to remove them, tossing them into a pile in the corner together with his socks.

He managed to remove his tunic as well before he reached the chest of drawers containing his garments. Fetching a fresh towel which had been placed in the bottom drawer by the maids, Tristan ran the rough cloth over his damp torso. Over tanned skin, toned muscles, tattoos- and scars.

Tristan knew each of them by heart, even those that had faded and hardly left a mark. Each had a story to its name, and he remembered, from the very first one from a fight in the tavern when he was a hot-tempered youth, to the very last one beside his heart that had nearly killed him- if not for Dagonet.

He rested a hand on the top of the drawers, pressing his palm against the cold wood, leaning his weight on it and flexing his stiff wrist. His head was bowed, damp strands of his black hair hanging over his eyes as he let his thoughts wander.

He reveled in the silence, then looked up and swept his eyes across the small, familiar room which had been his residence for the past fifteen years. It would not be his for much longer.

They had not yet spoken of leaving, but Tristan knew they would be all on the road soon. Arthur had asked of them to escort the Roman carriage, which would leave as soon as the aristocrats had rested properly. Tristan took that as three days or four. It was a request, Arthur made it clear, not an order, as their term of service had ended. But they all took it as a command - the last command from Arthur, their commander.

A wind somehow seeped its way into the still room, and Tristan shuddered, realizing that he was still wearing his wet leggings.

Deciding that he had stood around for long enough, he quickly changed into dry clothing, and tossed the cold towel onto the floor. His wet boots were no comfort to his frigid feet, but he resolutely ignored the chills that ran up his spine. He had been through worse things than a mere wet and cold day.

He had started walking down the corridor towards the stairs when he remembered the girl's request. Stopping in his tracks, he pondered for a moment if he should tell her. The men would not be happy to see her, but she wanted to know. She wanted to know badly- it was not difficult to detect the earnestness in her voice the night before.

So he turned back and walked to Dagonet's room, his footsteps on the stone ground light, but sounded loud in the still air. He considered knocking, but decided against it and opened the door noiselessly.

The room was empty, and for a fleeting moment, Tristan thought she had escaped. But he saw her boots lined neatly against the wall, and her white dress laid on the bed together with a black one. A fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a kettle hung on a blackened hook above it, steam streaming steadily from its spout. Tristan stood by the fire for a moment, soaking in its warmth.

Then he heard it. A swish of water, when one submerged one's hand and brought it up again.

He looked up from the red flames, as there was another whisper of dripping water. It came from the private bathroom only Dagonet's room had, and the door was ajar, strong candlelight casting moving, distorted shadows on the floor.

Maybe he should have left the room immediately, or made his presence known, but he stayed rooted where he was, listening to the sweet sounds of trickling water as it was rocked gently, like the sound of waves lapping peacefully against the side of a boat.

Then there was a sigh. A soft, contented sigh that caught him off guard. It lured him, called to him, and he found himself walking forward to the threshold. Step by step, each step soundless, until he stood at the door.

She sat in a wooden tub, her back to him. Her blond hair was let loose, water weighing the smooth threads down. Her shoulders were bare, and he stared, watching as a translucent water droplet slide down the slope of her arm.

Tristan was faintly aware that he was holding his breath, and he let it out slowly, his eyes fixed on her back. He knew it was wrong, that he should turn away, but his legs would not budge. He did not take his eyes away as she slowly brought a worn rag to her left shoulder, and slid it down her arm leisurely, almost seductively.

He frowned and swallowed, his breath uncomfortably short. He cursed himself for his weakness, and when he thought he had gathered enough resolve to tear his gaze away from her, she moved- and brushed aside her hair.

Tristan froze. On her back, were scars. At least a dozen of them, scattered over the stretch of pale skin. Most were faded, but some ran deep, and some were still red. One particular caught his eye. It was a pale red, running from her right shoulder blade, snaking its way down to the middle of her spine.

"Vanora?"

Her voice pulled him out of his trance, and he swiftly retreated before she could look around.

He rubbed his face as he walked hurriedly down the stairs, trying to clear his thoughts. He felt his desires stirring inside him, and he shook his head, annoyed at himself.

He pushed the doors of the quarters open, a frosty gust of wind blowing into his face as he stepped out onto the melting snow, and scowled at the persisting drizzle. Another flurry of icy wind sliced at him, and he met it with a grim face. Some wind might do him good.

He trudged towards the tavern, his head down. He would leave the message with Vanora, she might want to attend the burial. He doubted Bors had informed her- he was still cocooned in his grief.

Tristan reflected on this and barely noticed as Lancelot and Gawain walked by, apparently headed to the graveyard.

Maybe they all were.

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Hello! Sorry for the delay in updates, I've been rewriting this chapter several times. It's sort of strange, I guess. I hope you liked it though, and I hope that "bathroom incident" (stolen from the movie… with minor adjustments xD) was not that too tacky.

Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter! And Abi and Tristan WILL be getting together… soonish. Do you think their relationship is moving too slowly? Sometimes I think my characters warm up to each other too slowly, but I can't help it lol… opinions:)

Phantom666: Thanks –hugs- I hope you liked this update :D

MedievalWarriorPrincess: Thank you! I'm so glad you felt their pain! I really want my readers to feel what my characters feel :) Thanks for letting me know!

Lozcollie: Thank you! I haven't tried showing before, I enjoy jumping and dressage more ;)

Eric'sImaginaryFriend: Lol, don't smack yourself! Well, I guess Tristan has superhuman self-control. I would've killed her long ago if I were him… but there would be no story then, right? ;) Aww, thanks so much for your compliments! I agree, they could have done so much more with the knights in the movie. But anyways, I'm so glad you like my interpretation of the scene! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

MORWEN12: Lol I hope you enjoyed this update :D

Kasora: Aww, thank you –huggles- Lol, yes, Arthur is too polite xD Sigh, unfortunately, we're studying China and Japan right now. Very modern history :( It sucks. They should teach the Arthurian legends in history class, I'm serious! Good luck on your various exams! Which grade are you up to in piano? I've taken my grade 8 exam and I've completely abandoned piano already ;) Yes, I'm bad. Lol, yes, I jump on horsies! And I do dressage. I love horse-riding with all my heart :D Yes, I enjoyed HTD! Update when you have the time and I hope your writer's block will go away –smacks black- Till we rant again :D

GreenDayzIdiot: Hehe, I don't think anyone can hide themselves for too long. Especially when they are too sad and such, like Abi ;) Aww, I'm sorry to hear that the school dance wasn't that good. I hope your next one would be better lol! A flower that loves rain? LOL! –laughs- I hope you liked this chapter as well!

Mysticpig: Aww, here, don't be upset –huggles- Believe me, I feel no better having killed off Dag… I hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway :)

Nilmelwen: Thank you so much! Your compliments really flatter me :) And yeah, she really should feel sorry, and she is, I assure you!

Shai Nevermore: LOL! You really made me laugh! I'm glad you think she has character, I tried really hard to build a solid character in Abi :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reviewing!

Evenstar-mor2004: Thank you for your sweet words! I hope you liked this update :)

Peachydaisygirl: Thanks! I hope you liked this chapter!

Thank you once again for your kind reviews! If you're reading this story and not reviewing, it's okay, but a line or two from you can help me further improve my story and give me motivation :) Heh, enough preaching from me. I have a holiday this Friday so I might update in a few days' time, yay! Goodbye for now :D


	13. Breathless

Chapter 13: Breathless

A fresh mound of soil now marked the final resting place of Dagonet, in the company of those who had gone before him. The sky was grey, weeping for the fallen knight.

The remaining knights of the Round Table stood by the grave, their faces grim and hardened. Fulcinia and her son, Alecto, stood off to one side, heads bowed in respect, while Lucan stood in Guinevere's arms, tears streaking the young boy's pale face.

Arthur, holding Dagonet's sword in his hands, performed a series of religious rituals as he habitually did at every funeral, and the knights bore with them silently. Fulcinia and Alecto had clasped their hands in prayer, heeding Arthur's every solemn word.

"And in thy arms, we leave our brother to thy care, trusting that he will gain his deserved place in thy heavenly kingdom. Amen."

Then, stepping forward, Arthur raised the sword, which had seen more battles than most would in two lifetimes, towards the sky, and plunged it into the head of the grave, burying the sharp blade that had served its master well until the very last day he breathed, so that only the worn, rusty hilt marked the tomb.

Lucan let out a noisy sob, which he had apparently held back for a considerable amount of time. Guinevere hugged his shoulders in a comforting manner, and Fulcinia leant down to wipe his tears away with a handkerchief. The knights stood motionlessly, staring at the hilt of Dagonet's sword, each resigned to their memories of their brother.

Tristan stood with his hands behind his back, his right hand latched to his left wrist loosely. They were once again at the sad, little cemetery just outside the fort of Badon Hill, bidding farewell to another brother- on the eve of returning home.

Arthur broke the stillness, turning on his heels and walking down the slope leading to another part of the cemetery. Tristan knew where he was headed to. He always went to his father's grave when he was troubled, sitting in front of the sword-less grave from which he had drawn Excalibur. He would sit there for minutes, hours- as long as he needed.

Tristan watched as Guinevere gently coaxed Lucan into Fulcinia's arms, then followed Arthur, her dark hair catching the wind as she ran down the hill. He wondered if Arthur knew she was a Woad yet. Tristan deemed that she would let him know in time, if she had not yet.

Sweeping his gaze across the desolate place, the scout's dark keen eyes stopped at the edge of the graveyard's grey grass. Standing by the muddy road that led to the fort, was her. He could not see her face, but he knew it was her by her striking fair hair, curls that fell down to her waist. She was dressed in black, most probably in the black dress he saw on her bed.

A sweet shattering sound of clay brought Tristan's eyes back to the company of knights, with Bors now drunkenly leaving the scene, shards of a wine bottle at his feet. Lancelot gave the grave a sad stare, then turned and trudged toward the fort slowly. The rest followed, heads down in mourning.

Tristan stayed, and waited for her.

--------------

The knights passed by without even glancing in her way, and Abigail observed them silently, her eyes filmed and empty.

Her attention was drawn to the weeping child who was in the Roman widow's arms. He reminded her of Neville- he could not have been older than ten. His sandy blond curls were pasted to his tear-stained face, and he shuddered every time he inhaled sharply, his sobs a choking, moaning song.

She caused him this pain- she knew it.

The boy let out a sudden whine, and Fulcinia knelt down to dry his tears. Abigail stared at his slumped shoulders, and felt something pulling at her heartstrings. He was only a child, yet he had suffered so much. He did not deserve it.

The cries of despair quieted, and Fulcinia straightened up her small frame, took the boy by the hand and quickly left the cemetery. Her son cast Abigail a look of disgust, and she countered his with a glare that suggested as much hostility as his.

_Roman dogs_, she thought darkly, borrowing a line from Cerdic.

Then, her head held high in dignity, she moved along the narrow, muddy path that wound its way in between two grassy flanks, where mounds of earth protruded from the ground, rusty hilts of swords stood as tombstones for knights long forgotten save for their brothers-in-arms. Their deeds, their saving acts, all lost in the long years of turmoil- nothing was left of them but their rotting corpses and their broken swords.

What useless lives knights lived. They lived to save those of people they did not even know, they risked their lives, they disturbed peace. When Abigail was a little girl, she had heard tales of selfless knights, of honour, and she had once adored those stories. But now she had seen the world- a cruel place- she knew that honour was a fancy thing, invented by those sheltered from the harsh reality.

Honour did not play a part in the way things unfolded.

Preoccupied, Abigail realized with a start that she had arrived at Dagonet's grave, and she stopped. She stared at the wet mound, her eyes wide and slightly bewildered. Her grasp on the daffodil she had picked on her way there tightened, and she wondered if it was silly to place such a feminine thing on the grave of a knight.

She felt his eyes hard on her, and, swallowing her insecurity, she drew her hand out of her cloak, and slowly crouched down, leaving the single yellow flower on the middle of the knoll, then stepped back as if the ground would open up and bury her alive.

Abigail continued to gaze at the grave, and with a sinking feeling, she realized that her dead family had never been buried. They had been left on that beach to burn to ashes.

But at least they had not been left to rot till their flesh became part of the earth. The wind would have carried their ashes away, set them free.

Images of that day flashed into her mind, tormenting her. She could hear that faraway screams and smell the horrible scent of burning carcasses. She shuddered.

Bad memories.

She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze- steely, impenetrable.

Both of them experts in hiding inside themselves.

Knowing she had stayed for long enough, she readjusted her cloak which was starting to soak in the light rain, and walked away.

--------------

The fire burned strongly, and Abigail moved her chair a little bit away from the flames, its wooden feet producing an unpleasant screeching sound as they rubbed against the floor.

Vanora's wet dress and her own cloak were drying by the fire, and she was wearing her riding breeches and mended tunic, clean thanks to Vanora. On her lap was her thin white dress, and her right arm moved clumsily as she patched up a torn sleeve.

She had always loved sewing and embroidery, but her fingers were rusty from lack of practice and her upper arm felt heavy, though the wound had, as far as she saw, closed up. She bit her lip as the needle pricked a finger, and she sucked on the spot of blood on its tip.

Vanora had been kind enough to lend her clothing and shoes, as well as her sewing kit. Abigail could tell that she did not like her, she guessed that she had been close to Dagonet. Their conversations were short and to the point, and she never asked Abigail for her name.

She resumed her tedious job, which was once as easy as lifting a finger for her. The light outside was dimming, and her eyes felt weary from the hours she spent on mending the battered dress. Having completed stitching up the hem of the sleeve, Abigail decided to call it a day. She yawned and stretched her left arm over her head, then disposed her dress on the bed.

She allowed her thoughts to drift to the graveyard earlier that afternoon. She could not describe her feelings- there was regret, sadness, nostalgia. It roused memories of her family, which she had so cleverly concealed in the past year when she served the Saxons.

Sighing heavily, she rubbed the coarse fabric of the cloak between two fingers and decided it was dry enough. She folded it carefully into a square, then stopped suddenly, her emotions taking control as she flung it forcefully onto the floor, and stamped on it. Once. Twice.

She was strangely short of breath as she glared at the black cloth in disgust. It belonged to the former scout, and she was forced to keep it, as they did not have any spare clothing. Abigail recalled the dread as she reluctantly draped it over her shoulders, the blood of the dead scout still wet on the front of the cloak. She recalled the stench of blood and dirt as she slept on the cold forest floor in it, trembling with fear that her fate should follow its previous master's.

The fear that was black.

The black fear that blinded her to follow Cerdic, the fear that intensified with every massacre, and dulled her senses, taking the person out of her.

But it was coming back, she could feel it. Emotions were resurfacing, and she was beginning to regret everything she had done. Every hateful thing that helped the Saxons to murder her _own_ people in return of a living, breathing Abigail.

She was a coward.

She _hated_ herself.

Tears rolled down her face, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs consumed her. She was weak, she was afraid to stand up for what was right.

She was wrong, honour did matter.

--------------

Her room was empty.

Tristan frowned into the darkness, the dying embers in the fireplace being the only illumination in the room. Her boots were gone, so was her cloak. But her white dress laid sprawled on the bed.

It was near midnight, where could she have gone?

He had come to remove her stitches. If they stayed any longer in her skin, they would become infected. He moodily rotated the dagger in his hand. Now he had to find her.

_Wait_, he told himself. He did not have to look for her. She could rot in hell, for all he cared. Why cause himself the trouble?

He turned around to leave, but a shaft of moonlight drifted lazily into the room, and fell upon the bed. The dress seemed to glow, and he remembered the first time when he saw her, wearing the ridiculously thin frock when a snowstorm was brewing.

How incredibly stupid.

He ran his eyes over the simple dress. It was laid vertically, stretched out to its full length. If you just glanced quickly at it, it looked as if someone was asleep on the bed.

Tristan seemed to catch a hint of black on the hem of the dress. Curious, he went to the bed and flipped over the border.

Indeed, on the white fabric, an elegant script embroidered on in inside of the hem spelled out a name.

Abigail

--------------

_Thud._

Another arrow embedded itself near the center of the bull's eye.

Angrily, Abigail drew another arrow, notched it, and sent it flying.

It landed inches from the bull's eye.

"Bloody ridiculous," she grumbled to herself as she repeated the process.

Her aim was off target, her arm ached, and her eyes seemed to be playing tricks on her. Damn it.

She had no idea what drove her to the archery grounds. Maybe it was the fact that it ceased to rain, or maybe it was the fact that she could not sleep.

Most probably, however, was that she had to vent her fury.

Only a few arrows hit the actual bull's eye, while others scattered themselves randomly on the wooden board.

She was badly out of practice. She could not believe that a single wound was dragging her down. She had shot down people with a dislodged shoulder, she had ridden long hours with a bleeding foot, she had fought with a sword when her wrist was near to snapping.

Yet she could not handle a mere wound on the arm. A stitched, recovering wound.

It was a funny world, she thought sarcastically to herself.

Her instincts told her that someone was behind her, and she whipped around, arrow notched, glaring menacingly.

It was Tristan.

"Ah," she said simply, her tone sardonic.

He made no response, he just stared at her. He did not look pleased, as she noticed the deep frown on his brow.

"How may I help you?" she asked snappishly, not happy with the fact that she was interrupted- especially when she was angry.

"Nothing," he replied to her surprise. She noticed a faintly amused tone in his answer.

"Then, I must ask you to leave me to my solitude," she snapped back.

"How would I know if you would kill me with my back turned?" he asked, eyeing her bow.

"How would you know if I would kill you _now_?" she retorted, raising her bow to the level of his chest.

He stared at her impassively, then raked his eyes up and down her posture, as if sizing her up.

"You are incapable of killing me," he said coolly.

"Yes, I am," she replied arrogantly. "I simply have to release the arrow, and you would be dead."

He smirked.

He _smirked_. And he walked towards her, slowly, deliberately.

"And I would only have to dodge," he said quietly.

He was closer now, his eyes never wavering as they bored into her own, stark anger evident in those clear blue orbs. She tried not to tremble as her arms grew tired from gripping the mercenary bow, which was idiotically heavy.

"I. Have. Done. It. Before."

He closed the distance between them step by step with each word, till the tip of the arrow was pressed against his chest.

The air was still as they locked gazes, her glare hot and piercing, his stare steady and veiled. They stood like that for a few moments, and Abigail's mind raved.

"You simply have to release the arrow, and I would be dead," he said under his breath.

She flushed, livid. He was mocking her, insulting her. He knew she did not have the courage to kill him.

Hot tears of humiliation blurred her vision, stinging her tired eyes, and she blinked irritably. She made to drop the bow, but his hands shot out, holding her arms in place.

"You would never kill anyone this way," he informed her gruffly.

She froze as he lithely moved behind her, aware that he left a safe distance between her back and his body.

"Drop your elbow," he commanded as he dragged her right elbow down until it was level with her waist.

"Right your bow." His left hand ran along her arm, and grasped her hand, righting it so the bow was erect.

"Relax your shoulders." His hands forced her uptight shoulders down, and she released her tense muscles.

Then he was holding the bow with her, his calloused palms on the back of her hands, his arms supporting hers, and slowly turned her around.

His words brushed against her ear. "Aim- and shoot."

There was a whistle of air, and the arrow hit the dead center of the target with a triumphant thump.

Neither of them moved, the night silent, only their breaths could be heard. She tried to stop the shiver that ran down her spine as his lips grazed her earlobe, his breath warm on her cheek.

Before she had time to think, he moved down her neck, bit by bit, his lips hardly brushing her tender skin yet leaving a scorching trail behind. One hand convinced her to drop the bow, and the other placed itself on one side of her hip. She closed her eyes, trying in vain to deny the sensations that rushed through her veins as his coarse stubble rubbed against the base of her neck.

She was breathless as he turned her around to face him, his face calm and his eyes safely hidden behind his braids. But she could feel them, staring intensely into hers.

A breeze picked up and swept aside his locks, revealing his dark eyes. She could hardly see them, but the moonlight reflected in those treacherous depths, and she watched as they travelled down her face to her lips. Uneasily, she chewed on the insides of her mouth.

He was leaning down, his hands on the small of her back pulling her closer. She could hear her own heart's pounding, racing wildly in her ears.

He was so close now, she could see the ruggedness of his tanned face, the fine spots of the tattoo on his cheekbone, the lust in his eyes-

She pushed him away. Hard.

And she ran.

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_-hides-_

_-reappears with a peeved Tristan in tow, fiddles with fingers and stares at you with puppy eyes-_

Me: Well? What do you think? Review for more Tristan goodness!

Tristan: Psh.

_-runs away giggling, dragging a reluctant scout behind me-_

Lol, I'm high xD Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter! I love my reviewers -sends giant Tristan posters and virtual Tristan hugs to everyone-

Evenstar-mor2004: Thanks! Hehe, now you got your answer about the funeral :)

MORWEN12: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Lozcollie: Thank you very much!

Katemary77: Thank you for your compliments! I'm glad you like Abigail, and her flaws xD I hope you enjoyed this update :)

GreenDayzIdiot: Lol, yup, tsk tsk to Tristan. I'll read your new story very soon! I promise! I'm a bit caught up with school and such at the moment ;) Ah yes, I must update DTB soon. Sad thing is I seem to have lost all my muse for DTB :( But I'll see what I can do!

Mysticpig: Hehe, you're right! I hope you liked this chapter… he actually didn't gawk xD

Kasora: Lol! You're always hugging back xD Well, actually, it's not as interesting as it sounds. I SO hope they would go back to the Renaissance or something. THAT is interesting, my friend! Ah, I wish they would teach medieval stuff too, but sadly, it is out of syllabus. Evil exams! Hehe! You're a lawyer! –cheers- That SOSE thing sounds fun, I wish we had something interesting like that to do in school. School is killing me with its boredom / Aww, riding is great fun, I hope you'll ride again soon! I just went riding this morning, and I have three competitions next weekend :D Weeeh! Ah, you still have writer's block? –whacks stupid writer's block- AWAY WITH YOU, EVIL! –breathe in, breathe out- I'm glad you liked the chapter! I hope you liked this as well :D –whispers back- Yes! It is very long… did it set a new record? xD Till we rant again! -huggles-

KnightMaiden: Thank you! They're finally getting together… sorta ;) Whaddaya think?

Lovinallenman: I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thank you for reviewing and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :D

MedievalWarriorPrincess: -smiles back- Thanks! I hope you liked this update :D

Phantom666: Thanks :)

Peachydaisygirl: Thanks! I hope you enjoyed this update!

Shai Nevermore: I like your story! It's very interesting, I hope you update soon :) Lol, I'm glad you don't think it's tacky. I hope this chapter isn't too rushed or anything… Ah, it pained me to have to kill Dag, seriously. But I did it. Sigh. I won't be killing any more knights though, so I am sorta guilty as well ;)

A longer chapter than usual, I hope you liked it! Till the next update! Bye!


	14. Heart and Mind

A/N: My most profuse apologies for the last chapter, my faithful readers. I have no idea why I posted it, it was pure crap. Cleanse your mind of it, I beg of you. Here is a brand new chapter, set in a brand new perspective, and I like it much, much better.

I feel so bad about the previous Chapter 14, I've let you all down, and I've let myself down. I promise no such mistake would happen again. For now, please enjoy this chapter.

P.S. I wish to thank **Shai Nevermore** for waking me up. You made me realize how trashy my last chapter was. Kudos to you, my friend!

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Chapter 14: Heart and Mind 

A curl of harsh wind lashed at Abigail's face without mercy, tugging at her long hair and making it tangle. She moistened her cracked lips with her tongue, and brought a hand up to cup her frozen cheeks, though her palm brought little warmth to them. She longed for the coast- where winds were exhilarating but mild, with the comforting scent of salt, and lazy cries of gulls instead of the eerie silence that now reigned under the screams of the wind.

She surveyed the grey plains that spread expansively in front of her from her perch on the small hill that had broken into the rotten fortress walls, her eyes a dull light blue while sweeping across the landscape with an air of expertise she had acquired from the past year. She noted the landmarks in her head- flat plains with worn roads to the south on the other side of the fort, headed to the shoreline of Southern Britain. Dense forests covered north-west, sparsely scattered woods to the north-east, and a wide path in between which narrowed gradually, leading into Woad territory.

She stood on tip-toe, as if trying to look beyond the black treetops of the forests, then fell back onto her heels. She knew what laid in and behind those trees. Snaking forest paths hidden by undergrowth, winding their ways to remote villages and towns, and somewhere in the dense vegetation, tribes of Woads lived secluded from the world, but were always there. She had seen them herself on several occasions when scouting, blue demons, disappearing and appearing at will. Rebel natives forever seeking their land back with war and blood.

Now the Romans were leaving, the Saxons came. This grey island was again left to a foreign force's mercy.

Bleak clouds were hovering low, and seemed to weigh down on her, threatening to smother her.

Out of all people in Britain, it was her who had come across the Saxons, became their scout, helped them conquer her country little by little; when all she had wanted was to spend her life in her village, with her family, marry a good man, have a couple of children, and live a simple life.

A very plain life, and she knew many aspired more than she did. She had heard so many of her friends declare that they wanted a life of adventure. A lifetime of wandering in foreign lands, a romantic chance meeting with their knight in shining armour, then wander a bit more before settling down, preferably in their husband's stone castle beside the sea.

No, she was a practical person. She never dreamed too far, preferring to live her life to the fullest. She never asked for more than she deserved, but she never got anything less than she deserved either.

Until that day.

She often wondered if she really deserved all that had happened to her. Had she offended any gods to have the misfortune befall upon her? Or was it mere chance? A coincidence?

If she had offended any superior beings, well, she would not have believed it. She was not superstitious, as her mother was.

If it was chance, then she marveled at her luck. Not that she was particularly lucky, nor was particularly unlucky.

Until that day.

Well, many things changed since that day. In fact, everything had changed. All that she had ever known and believed in was taken away from her that day. Even herself, Abigail Langridge. She was killed and reborn.

On that day.

Everything, everything- she blamed it on _that day_.

Though she claimed to be practical, she wondered over and over again, what would have happened if they had not been at the seaside that day. Maybe they would have found a route of escape, or maybe they would have been killed without knowing what happened- not that her dead family knew anyhow- but she concluded that anything- anything at all- would have been better than _this_.

She had gone too far to turn back. She was a frightened prey, ever sought after by the Saxons, her conscience, her haunting past. She was afraid of life, of what laid in store for her, and even more of death.

She knew the Saxons were looking for her. They knew she was captured by the Romans, which was even more of a convenience to them, since their plans were to overtake the main fort of the Wall at Badon Hill before moving south to capture the remaining lands, then lastly move north to vanquish the Woads.

When they found her, they would not be merciful. The Saxons did not suffer traitors, nobody ran away from them, nobody escaped. They would find her, and she would die a death more painful than any could imagine. She only knew too well.

She shuddered. She felt suddenly colder, and smaller, as the fields seemed to loom ominously, threatening to drag her down to its earthly depths- into hell.

A piercing shriek brought her thoughts jolting back to reality. Abigail looked up at the grey sky, where a lone hawk was winging idly, its brown feathers spread at full length. She admired its fierce beauty, tilting her head backwards to observe it as it glided in circles, sounding another dominant cry.

"You should be indoors."

Startled, Abigail whipped around sharply. The Sarmatian scout was standing at the edge of the hill, his hands behind his back, his unruly locks sprawled across his face.

She brushed away a few wisps of her own hair that were covering her eyes, and met his coldly, her heart pounding heavily.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with as much venom as she could muster.

"I believe," he replied, taking a few steps towards her, "that I should be asking the question."

"And the reason is?" she retorted, raising her chin in a defiant manner.

He did not answer, but diverted his stare to her arm. "How is your arm?"

"Very well, if it hadn't been sliced in the first place," she answered rudely.

His face darkened, and he allowed the winds to sweep his hair into disarray, covering most of his tanned face.

"Let me look at it," he said gruffly, reaching out for her arm.

Abigail pulled back instinctively, remembering what happened the night before all too clearly, and he stopped, letting an awkward silence linger in the air while she eyed him hostilely.

"If you don't let me take the stitches out, they will get infected," he informed her almost pleasantly, as if telling her that there would be sunshine instead of more rain.

She frowned, somehow annoyed by his calm façade. Reluctantly, she nodded, and he moved forward again.

Abigail turned her attention to her thick clothes, thinking it would be a handful to deal with. She took off her cloak and let it drop onto the grass, then, gingerly, began to extract her arm from her battered fleece coat. Unfortunately, halfway through, she found the stitches in the way, threatening to tear apart, leaving her in an clumsy position.

_Damn_, she thought with a scowl.

She jumped when Tristan's hands gently pulled her arm from its confines, and quickly but carefully rolled up the sleeve of her thick tunic, revealing her fraying stitches.

"Sit down," he commanded.

She obliged, and wrapped her abandoned cloaks around her shoulders, leaving her bare arm in sight. The freezing air lashed at her arm, and it became numb with cold in no time.

Abigail watched as Tristan pulled out a small and sharp knife from his boot, and a leather flask. He knelt down beside her, and ran his eyes over the stitches.

"It might hurt," he stated.

"I anticipated as much," she muttered offhandedly.

Unfastening the flask, Tristan tossed her a nonchalant look and poured some liquid which smelt strongly of alcohol over the cold blade of the knife.

"What's that?" asked Abigail.

"Gin."

"What for?"

"Disinfection," he clenched his fingers around her elbow, and pulled her closer to him. "Hold still."

The gin burnt her skin, and she bit her lower lip to suppress the shriek that rose in her throat. Regrettably, she managed to sink her teeth into the bruise at the edge of her lip, and she grimaced as she tasted the salty tang of blood.

If Tristan noticed her bleeding lip, he did a commendable job of overlooking it. Abigail pressed a sleeve up to her lip, letting the fabric soak up the blood as she watched him.

He was deftly probing for the ends of the thread with his knife, which was accomplished within moments. He cut the knot that held the stitches together, and began undoing them by dipping the sharp tip of the knife under the thread, then slid it out of her skin.

Abigail hardly breathed as he worked on her stitches, fearing if she moved a muscle, that knife would plunge into her skin- which she most definitely did not want to happen again. But his hand was so steady, his movements so confident, that she felt assured despite of herself.

She felt her skin tear, and she winced, peering warily at her arm, but the knife blocked her view. New skin must have grown over the thread.

Out of the corner of her eye, she studied him. That face, sober and tanned, was curtained by his hair as he bowed over her arm. Her eyes sidled over his features, and rested on the tattoo on his high cheekbone. Two narrow stripes, midnight blue, as if it was etched there eternally by two claws. It had been so close to her. Those lips, clamped shut in a stern line, that had grazed her skin ever so gently as they slithered over her neck. Those eyes, now moving with the movement of his knife, that had been staring into her own as if he could see her very soul.

He made her feel vulnerable, breakable. Especially when he was looking at her. He was not afraid to look into her, as most were. They said her eyes were too blue, too icy and untouchable. She merely had to harden her gaze, and they would look away from her.

But he was different. _He_ made _her_ look away.

She was not used to that.

A burning sensation searing into her numb arm sent her jerking away in alarm, and she nearly tumbled backwards, if Tristan had not snatched her hand and pulled her forward.

"Be careful," he frowned, and replaced his small blade in the inner side of his leather boots.

Abigail twisted her arm slightly so she could see the wound. There were faint marks of the stitches on the pink, tender flesh, and blood cots. Otherwise, it had recovered well.

She looked up and forced herself to look at Tristan, while pulling down the sleeve.

"I believe I owe you my thanks," she used Arthur's words, her voice flat.

Tristan responded with something of a shrug. He tucked the flask into the depths of his cloak, then sat down on the grass beside her, staring out at the horizon. She caught the glint of his eyes as he lifted his chin to see through his hair.

"When are you leaving?" she asked, shrugging her coat back on, with much less effort now the stitches were gone.

"Arthur has yet to decide," he replied. Abigail detected a slight foreign accent in his voice, as well as a soft slur, as if he were tipsy.

He turned his head a fraction and peered at her. "When will _you_ leave?"

She shrugged and turned away from him, averting her gaze to the north.

"Soon," she answered curtly.

"Where will you go?"

"To the north," she decided on the moment. "I know the roads well there."

"The Saxons are coming from the north," he said in a hard voice.

"Then why are the Roman lords not leaving? The Saxons are headed to the Wall, any fool can see that."

"There are religious rituals, as I have been told. And the Romans have to rest, as well as repair the carriage," he said, his voice so low that Abigail had to strain to hear him. "Why are you headed north then? After what the Saxons have done to you." He gestured to her arm.

"If I remember correctly, it was _you_ who cut my arm open," she snapped. "And you have no idea what the Saxons did to me."

He stared at her steadily, so steadily she had to drop her gaze once again.

"No, I have no idea. Would you care to enlighten me?" he said lightly, his tone hinting at scorn.

Abigail hesitated. "No. I would not."

There was a howl of wind, and it blew with such a force that Abigail felt like she was a leaf in a breeze. She drew up her shoulders protectively, guarding her exposed cheeks while waiting for the gust to pass. Tristan, however, sat still as a stone. Only his hair moved, swept to the side, revealing his tired face.

"Who is Dolores?"

Abigail froze. His words were quiet, but they rang in her ears as clearly as if he had yelled at her. Slowly, she turned to stare at him, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"H-how, I- how-" she opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"You called her name in your sleep after you were injured," explained Tristan softly.

Yes, she remembered. That dream. She closed her eyes and envisioned Dolores. A white, unsmiling angel, picking shells. Her eyes a dark forest green of their father's, instead of mother's blue, that always looked on solemnly. Those soft pads of her tiny hands gripping hers, her fat fingers tugging on her dress when she demanded attention. Abigail could see her standing in front of her.

"She was my little sister," she answered his sudden question in a whisper.

He stayed so still that she doubted whether he had heard her, but then he was gazing at her again. Her heart clenched. It clenched from the pressure of his gaze, the grief of losing family in her renewed.

She tried to breathe, but a sob in her throat was choking her, causing her to let out a strangled noise. He did it again. He broke her walls, with a single, innocent question she did not even have to answer.

A warm droplet made its way down her numb cheeks, and slid off her chin. She bit the insides of her mouth, and determinedly inhaled deeply. She must not cry. She had not shed a tear during the long year of her service to the Saxons, why now?

Steeling her heart and setting her jaw, her sparse tears subsided. Colour rose to her cheeks, this was not the first time she had cried in front of him.

A warm and calloused hand covered hers, and she looked down to see Tristan's long and tanned fingers enclose her frozen hand. Another went under her chin, tilting her chin upwards and turning her face towards him, till she had nowhere to look but into his dark brown eyes.

Impulsively, her other hand grabbed the one he had laid on hers, drawing warmth from him, and he obliged, his large hand easily wrapping both of her hands. He felt so warm. She wanted to be near to him. She was cold, very cold.

As if reading her mind, he close the distance between them, her chin still trapped in his fingers. He loomed over her now, and she could see every detail of his face. She saw a small scar at the edge of his eyebrow, it looked like a scratch that ran too deep. She could see the dots of colour on the borders of his tattoo. She could see his eyes, warm, offering solace, if only just for now.

His breath was hot on her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, savouring the comfort the closeness of his body.

Intimacy and solace- they were foreign to her after a long year of cruelty. She wanted it. She wanted to be told she would be alright. She wanted to be comforted. Just this once.

She opened her eyes as she felt his lips brush hers, and she met his stare, dark and intense. Her eyelids fell as he kissed her with a stronger force, her breath catching as his tongue ran over her bottom lip, over her bruise, paining her. She whimpered, and he withdrew slightly, lingering over her mouth, his hand falling down to the small of her back, his arms enveloping her.

"Tristan, sir?"

Abigail's eyes snapped open, and her mind snapped awake. She fell back from him, her eyes wide in shock. He had already stood up, facing the edge of the hill, waiting for the owner of the voice to appear.

It was the Woad woman. She bustled up the hill, hitching her elegant dress, her brown curls bouncing about her slim shoulders.

"Sir, Arthur told me I could find you here," she smiled triumphantly, reaching the crest of the slope. "He calls a meeting, and requires your presence now."

Tristan nodded, and without looking back, descended the hill.

Abigail sat with her lips pursed, her mind hazy with confusion. _What had happened? What madness overcame her?_

She had forgotten the other woman's presence until she spoke. "Your lip is bleeding."

Abigail immediately brought a hand up to her bottom lip, and wiped away a smear of crimson blood. It was warm, warm with his touch. She felt her face flush, and she turned away from the Woad, standing up rather unsteadily onto her feet.

Abigail could feel her eyes on her back as she walked down the hill, her mind trying to reason with her heart, and her heart refusing to listen.

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MORWEN12, katemary77, lozcollie, peachydaisygirl, Randomisation: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying this story! I hope you'll continue reading and reviewing :)

KAfan: Wow, thank you for your compliments! I'm glad you think Abi is a unique character, and yes, she is flawed. Seriously flawed xD Yeah, I know, I've had difficulty in finding reasons to keep her alive! I'm glad you like the way I portray Tristan! I guess he has a rather distinct character in my mind, so it isn't really all that difficult to write about him. I hope you enjoyed this chapter- thanks for reviewing!

KnightMaiden: Lol, be patient! They will be together soon. Very soon –hint, hint- Ah, yes, Tristan does seem lonely, but he has his hawk and horse, so don't worry too much about him ;)

GreenDayzIdiot: Calm down, my friend! Yes, I know, she shoved him away, which was bad, but hey, revel in the suspense! xD Aww, thank you so much! I'm flattered, really! -hugs- Yes, your new story is very interesting! Update both your stories soon, okay? Ahh, yes, I promised I would update DTB but I didn't :( Well, I guess I need some new ideas before I could update it! Adios!

Mysticpig: Hehe, you should be relieved now the stitches are out ;) Yes, it is confusing. Neither of them know what's going on yet, but they will know eventually :)

MedievalWarriorPrincess: Thank you! I'm glad you think it's realistic. I hope this chapter isn't too unrealistic, since Vanora seemed so happy around Abi. But she does have a reason to be happy, right? ;) Lol! I'm glad you liked the A/N thing! –fans you- Hehe, calm down, my friend! Though you are right, I wouldn't mind taking away Tristan and Lancelot xD I hope you enjoyed this update!

Shai Nevermore: LOL! You're making me laugh again xD You're totally right about the not-so-innocent little girl part! I hope you liked this chapter!

Brunette-barbie14: I hope you're not too disappointed that he didn't follow her! Thanks for the compliments, I'm glad you like my story!

JessipurrMalfoy: LOL! I totally agree with you! But, unfortunately, the plot refuses to bend hehe. I hope you liked this chapter!

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Please review this chapter! I need to know what you think of it, it's the turning point of the whole story… well, sort of. It's of great significance anyway! Please take a moment to tell me what you think! I'm really anxious to know. Thank you for reading!


	15. Unravel

Chapter 15: Unravel

"She told you that?"

Tristan gave a slight nod, then added, "Implied it."

Arthur looked down at the map that was spread out in front of him on the Round Table absent-mindedly, wordlessly mulling over his thoughts.

"How long till they get here?"

"I would guess by tomorrow nightfall- earliest."

Arthur's brow creased. "We don't have enough time."

"Why?" asked Lancelot, a tinge of suspicion on his face as he eyed his friend with his fingers around his chin. "We just have to pack up the Roman family and leave. Today."

The knights looked at Arthur, and with his eyes set determinedly, they knew what exactly was going in his head.

"Arthur, you _cannot_ expect the whole fort to empty," said Gawain in a low rumble, obviously suppressing his discontent.

"We take as many as are willing to come," replied Arthur firmly, turning to hold Gawain's annoyed gaze authoritatively.

"You're wasting time, Arthur," said Galahad through clenched teeth.

"As long as I can breathe I will not leave the innocent-"

A loud crash echoed in the great hall as Bors' fist made contact with the smooth, waxed table, and all jumped involuntarily at the unexpected noise.

"I have a wife and a dozen children," snarled Bors, his fisted hands shaking with anger. "I won't waste my time parading with a caravan of peasants when I could leave right now."

Arthur's face was passive, and his tone calm as he replied, "Bors, you know very well the Romans still have a hand in your fate."

Another loud smash thundered, this time with Bors' chair sent crashing to the marble floor.

"I am a free man!" hollered Bors, his face red with fury.

"Bors," said Arthur softly. "You know you are not. Yet."

The bald knight glared at Arthur with menacing eyes, his chest rising and falling with each furious breath, his fingers clenched at his sides. He was wrath itself.

With a grunt, he spun around and stormed out of the hall, pushing the door open roughly and slamming it shut with his full might.

The hollow reverberations of the slammed door rang in the hall, and when they died down, only the crackle of raving fire purged the deafening silence shared by five distressed knights. And each too proud to admit it.

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Abigail laid still under the warm covers, her eyes wide open, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. Once in a while, a piece of burnt wood would snap, and a shimmer of flame would glow before dying down amongst the black remains.

The fire was burning low, and she was aware of the chill in the room, but she did not bother remaking the fire, though logs were chopped and piled up neatly beside the fireplace. The very thought of getting out of bed, padding across the freezing floor, and heaving logs into the hearth, was too much for her heavy head to handle.

Oh yes, it was very heavy.

She sighed aloud and closed her eyes, hoping sleep would eventually come. She had been lying in bed for hours, since the last light of another winter day petered out behind the mountains. Vanora had brought her dinner, which sat untouched on the table beside the window. And fresh clothes- a thick black dress. She said her white one, which she was now wearing, was too flimsy to wear in this weather. Or anytime in the year on this wretched island, for that matter.

But Abigail would not bring herself to changing out of it. No, it was too big a task. She did not feel like doing anything at all.

That kiss, that brush of lips had stolen all the strength she had left in her exhausted body. His heated breath, the touch of his hands had broken down the remains of her ramparts. He had undone her in a matter of minutes.

She could not believe it. Him, a Sarmatian scout. A stranger. An enemy.

Abigail groaned and drew the covers over her face, screwing her face up tight in frustration. Enemy. She no longer knew what that word meant. She had no idea who was friend or foe anymore. The Saxons, the Romans, her own people.

She _hated_ the Saxons, loathed them and cursed their every breath, but she was still their scout. She hated it, and though she had escaped her duties in these past few days, she could not banish the thought from her head. When they found her, she would be expected to take up her position again.

When they found her…

Suddenly, she could not longer picture her future. Or even the next hours. Everything was a whirlpool of colours- of green, brown, grey, black-

And red.

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Tristan lifted the door on its hinges so it opened with the slightest creak, then closed it in a similar manner after stepping into the dark room.

It was cold, and he knew why after glancing at the pitch black hearth. He quickly wedged a few logs into the fireplace, and lit a fire with the matches he found on the mantel. The small flames crackled briskly, and an orange glow illuminated the room.

She was a big lump on the bed, with only a few strands of her blond hair peeking out from the sheets. He strode over to the bedside, and peeled the sheets away, revealing her slumbering, flushed face. She could have easily suffocated herself.

He studied her face again. For how many times, he knew not. She was pleasant to look at, with her pale complexion and delicate features. And more so tonight, because for once, her face was peaceful, her brows a graceful arc instead of crumpled into a vicious frown or inclined to stop tears falling from her eyes.

His eyes slid down the smooth slope of her cheek to her lips, the bruise still an evident black amid the red.

He had wanted her, but he knew, not only out of lust. And he did not only want to take from her. He wanted to show her- show her that she was not the only one hurting, show her that he understood.

She did attract him- he could not longer deny that. Her nimble movements, her sharp eye, her sharper tongue, her involvement with the Saxons, her scars. She was a mystery. One waiting to be unraveled.

But he knew he would not have the time.

Gently, he removed the covers from her right arm, finding that she was wearing the same white dress the first time he laid eyes on her. The one that told him her name.

Keeping his eyes on the arm, he rolled the sleeve upward with a bit of difficulty, for it was rather narrow. When he had it secured above the wound, he took a corner of the sheets and slipped it under her arm. Then, he took the same flask of gin he had used that afternoon from his coat, unfastened the lid, and poured a small amount along the wound. She shifted as the liquid ran over her skin, but then sighed and stilled again. Wiping excess gin from her wound with the sheets, he found the bandages he brought along and wrapped the white fabric firmly around her quickly recovering wound. He then pulled the sleeve down again, and returned the arm to its original position under the warm covers.

"George?"

Tristan's head jerked up, and he found her staring at him through drowsy slits, a perplexed frown on her brow.

"Is that you?"

Her voice was no louder than a whisper, and her tone hopeful as she continued to stare at him.

Tristan shook his head slowly, leaning forward and pressed his palm gently to the side of her face.

"Sleep," he said softly.

A small smile graced her lips as her eyes fluttered close with a quiet sigh.

"Take care of Dolores for me, George," she whispered.

Her breathing gradually slowed down, an unhurried, leisurely rhythm as her body rose and fell with every breath. And he hovered above her, silently watching her, his hand, almost reluctantly, leaving her warm cheek.

_Who was George?_

"Sleep," he murmured again, more to himself, and soundlessly slipped out of the room.

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Hi! Sorry for the long wait, I've been busy studying for my mid-year exams, which are coming up next week! EEK! So yeah, unfortunately, it would be hiatus for this story until my exams are over on the 16th December :( Yes, I can hear your complaints, but school comes first… sigh…

Yeah, I know, this chapter is short. It's kinda interlude-ish, since it's the fifteen chapter already! Yay! Thank you all of you for sticking to this story this far, I really appreciate your reviews and encouragement :D

Speaking of which, it sucks that you can no longer post shout-outs -pouts- Oh well. I'll try my best to reply to all your reviews, so watch out :)

Have to go now. Tristan's gotten into trouble. With eggs. Err, it's a long story, you see. Well, I'm trying to teach him to cook. _–smiles sheepishly-_ Lasagna, to be exact. _–CRASH and curses-_ Well, I seriously gotta go now! Remember to review:D

_-runs off to rescue distressed scout in a kitchen-_


	16. Break and Mend

Chapter 16: Break and Mend

The remaining frost that clung to the short, grey clumps of grass crunched under the worn soles of Abigail's boots as she walked in purposeful strides to the stables. She was dressed once again in her riding attire, which was comfortably warm and clean under the same cloak she had worn since winter settled in.

She held in her hand a bundle of clothes Vanora had lent her, she was returning them today. In her other was her white dress, her only possession left from her past. She was hoping to barter for a few days' worth of bread with it, and hopefully something more.

She had decided to leave the next day. The weather had seemed to clear, the clouds lighter and higher, though it still threatened to snow or rain. It would not make a difference anyway. What mattered was her arm- it had, thankfully, stopped hurting. When she woke up earlier that morning, she found it bandaged, and for that she was grateful. She wondered if she was to thank Vanora or Tristan- she had no memory of anyone cleaning her up the night before.

A comfortable warmth rose within her, and knowing the roots of it, she frowned slightly, trying to suppress the image of Tristan that was looming into her head.

She could picture him so well. His lean but strong limbs, his slightly inclined posture, his handsome face veiled behind those black tendrils of braids-

_Stop_, she commanded herself fiercely. She made a noise of disapproval, and tilted her head to look at the sky, wincing as cold air rushed to greet her exposed throat. What had she gotten herself into?

Tristan. She confessed- he was both the reason to stay and to go. It would be a lie to say that she felt nothing for him. She did feel _something_ for him. But it was so vague, so unshapely, that she could not place a finger on it.

A corner of her mind had been echoing with a word, a word that she had let go of a long time ago. She shook her head, lowering her chin again. It was not _it_, it could not be. But _would_ it be?

She would not be here to find out, she thought decisively. She did not want to know.

She smiled wryly. Now _that_ was a lie.

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The stables, to her surprise, were bustling with activity. Carts and carriages in bad need of repair were crammed into the courtyard, awaiting their turns. Horses neighed and tossed their heads in irritation as they were led in and out of the stables. Men rushed around with horseshoes and hammers, yelling at each other. Abigail nearly got run over by an upset horse who had broken away from his master and was galloping from the chaotic scene.

Now that she was here, she wondered who she could ask for directions. She would most probably find Vanora at the tavern, she had told her that she worked there. But where _was_ the tavern?

"Ah, it's you."

Abigail swirled around at the icy voice, her eyes immediately narrowing to cautious slits as she regarded its owner. It was the fair-haired knight, the one who had made his hatred towards her known. Whose name was Gawain. He stared at her aloofly, but the contempt was clear in his clear green eyes.

"Yes, it's me," she replied, her voice hoarse for she was speaking for the first time in hours.

Gawain sneered at her as he shifted, crossing his muscular arms across his chest. "I cannot imagine why Arthur kept you alive, other than that you're British." He laughed, sharp and bitter. "It seems that Arthur takes a great liking to this island, eh?"

Abigail glared a him balefully, refusing to respond, then made to walk right past him. But he moved in front of her, blocking her way. She stepped to the side, but he followed, again barring her way.

She gritted her teeth, holding back the urge to throw a fist at his smug face. "I wish to leave."

"Why should I grant your wish?" he spat, his temper flaring. "You are a _murderer_," his eyes flashed dangerously. "You should be put to death."

Abigail inwardly cringed at the word "murderer", and she clenched her jaw to check the surfacing emotion. She lifted her chin, all the while trying to hold onto the few threads of dignity left in her.

"Well, your commander thinks otherwise," she snapped.

"Apparently," he smirked. "With all the talk of his merciful God. But he wouldn't blame me if I returned the favour, would he?"

Before she could blink, the icy blade of a dagger was pressed to the base of her neck harshly. Without anything in her defence, Abigail stayed still, simply scowling at Gawain with all the courage she could rally as his glazing eyes bore into hers furiously. He was angry, the past few days had done nothing to dampen his jagged emotions, she could see that. And she would be paying for it.

Abigail was aware of the silence that had descended on the yard, even the horses were still as they pricked their ears up in anticipation. A gust of wind howled by, amplifying the eerie hush until a voice spoke.

"Let her go."

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Gawain slowly turned his head to glare at him, his knuckles still white from his tight grip on the dagger, and from his self-restraint. The restraint that kept him from plunging the knife into her pulse in her neck.

"Let her go," Tristan said again, a little louder this time. His horse tossed his head, making his bit jingle, as if telling Gawain to hurry up.

A crude leer lifted one corner of his mouth as Gawain raked his eyes down her body elaborately, then up again, in a leisurely way. Tristan could see that she was holding back as well, her hands were fisted forcefully at her sides, and she was breathing as if she had an incredible weight on her chest. Her humiliation.

"I wonder why you're always defending her, Tristan," Gawain broke the silence, his voice laced with scorn. He lifted his head to stare at the scout, his expression that of feigned ease.

"Tell me," he said, almost pleasantly. His eyes then returned to her, lingering greedily over her chest. "Is it because of her- _favours_ towards you?"

No one ever saw it coming. Even those who had their stares fixed on him barely saw a flash of silver, then all heard a fierce clang of metal as Gawain's dagger was sent flying, then buried itself squarely on a carriage nearby. There was a collective gasp of awe, then a hush fell once again as Tristan swung his leg nimbly over the saddle and landed deftly on the snow, his feet barely sinking into the soft frost.

He locked gazes with Gawain as he walked over to them, his anger- wherever it came from- kept at bay. He did not stop until he was toe-to-toe with him, and they stared at each other, fighting a wordless battle between them.

A few tense moments passed, then Gawain stepped back, a deep frown on his forehead. He shrugged carelessly, falling back as he nodded briefly. Then he let out a spiteful bark of laughter.

"'Tis alright, _brother_, I understand," he spat, then spun on his heels and left the yard in a huff without bothering to retrieve his weapon.

Tristan watched him go, unfazed, while turning his words over his head. _Understand_?

He diverted his gaze to a man standing nearby, and he immediately scuttled away, his pony in tow. Activity resumed, and he noted the many prying stares he got from the passer-bys. A brawl between two knights- no matter how quiet it was- was a rare sight. He expected gossips to have reached the marketplace by now.

Tristan finally turned to her, who was glaring at the embedded dagger on the carriage blankly, though the menacing gleam in her hard blue eyes gave her away. He glanced at the bundles she was clutching, then asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

She spared him a distracted glance, then looked down at her the worn tips of boots. "I'm fine," she replied curtly, her voice cracked.

He nodded, then strode over to Gawain's dagger and pulled it out, strapping it to his belt. He bent down and picked up his own, dusting the light film of snow from its polished blade, then latched it next to Gawain's.

He felt her warm presence behind him, but did not turn to acknowledge her, waiting for her to speak.

"Do you know where Vanora is?"

Tristan could not help arching an eyebrow, though he knew he should not have been surprised at her steely tone and impersonal. But after the- _events_ of the day before, he had expected a change in attitude from her. One of the few mistakes he ever made. Women were unpredictable as weather, after all.

"At the tavern."

"Yes, so I've heard," she snapped impatiently. "Where _is_ the tavern?"

He scowled and said, still facing the cold wood of the carriage, idly checking the hilt of his sword. "Down the road behind the stables. On the left."

"And the market place?"

Now he turned to her, mirroring her face of impassiveness tinged with irritation. "South-west of the fort," he answered vaguely in a low growl. Tolerance had a limit.

She crossed her arms, cocked her head to one side, and closed her eyes while inhaling deeply. Tristan watched, somewhat amused, as she apparently counted to ten inside to herself. Precisely what he would do when he felt his mask of aloofness breaching, which rarely happened.

"And where," she opened her eyes to glare at him. "Exactly is the south-west of the fort?"

He casually ran his tongue over his dry lips, and leaned back on the carriage, crossing his arms as he regarded her through his hair thoughtfully.

"I thought you were a scout," he said lightly.

Her face instantly darkened, and she raised her chin in defiance. A habit of hers, he had noticed. Especially when she felt offended.

"And what does that have to do with you?" she asked sharply.

He did something akin to a shrug. "I thought all scouts have a keen sense of direction. Proves me wrong, though."

He practically saw a scream climbing up her throat, but she bit her lower lip just in time to avert it.

"If you don't want to tell me, fine," she whispered harshly, her voice shaking with frustration. "But don't tamper with my affairs as if you had a _bloody_ right to."

Except that she did not say "bloody". Tristan did not resist his eyebrows this time as they shot up, watching her whirl around, nose in the air, threading her way through the crowd with deliberate long strides, her long strands of blond hair billowing behind her before disappearing into a flurry of horseshoes and flustered stable hands.

Tristan pushed himself from the side of the carriage and reached for his horse, who stood just a few strides away.

Something crunched under his feet, and he looked down.

White fabric among white snow.

He bent down and picked it up, recognizing the soft and sheer fabric the moment it grazed his fingertips. He shook it free of the snow, and balled it into a tight bundle. His horse rubbed his velvety nose against the dress in mischief, snorting as he playfully pushed it away.

Tristan shook his head and gave his loyal companion a pat on the neck, sighing heavily. _Women_. They were much worse than unpredictable.

--------------

"_Vile_ man," she muttered to herself, frowning so much that her brow ached faintly. "Ridiculous, bloody son-of-a-" she abruptly stopped herself as she noticed that her voice was getting higher notch by notch, and that people passing by her were now giving her queer looks.

She swore once more under her breath, then cramped her mouth shut. Just then a man walked by her, his eyes wide in shock. She glared at him, unleashing a few more colourful curses she had learnt from Cerdic, causing him to dash away from her, startled. Perhaps startled was an understatement.

_Damn him_, her mind raved. She wondered why it _ever_ entered her mind that she might actually have feelings for him. That _obnoxious_ scout. Well, it was clear whatever "feelings" she had suspected were non-existent now.

A more reasonable part of her reminded her that she should have thanked him instead of throwing a tantrum square in his face considering the fact that he had saved her. _Again_. Abigail made a face. That man was bruising when it came to egos.

Not to mention infuriating! How dared he act as if he owned the world. She found herself wondering if she were such an exceptional laughingstock. Oh, maybe she was. First, he nailed her under him with a few swipes of his sword. Then, he caught her sending a letter to her commander and made her feel bad about herself. He had then rescued her from a sadistic Cerdic, seen her cry under more occasions than she was willing to, stitched her up, corrected her archery stance, drove her half-mad with uncertainty, took her stitches out, stole her first kiss, then acted like nothing had happened before, _and_ ridicule her after saving her life for the umpteenth time.

She kicked at the snow viciously, venting a tad of her pent-up anger.

Why? Why had she not shot him when she had the chance?

"The market's down the other way, then to the right at the first cross-road."

Abigail jumped a foot in the air when the voice of the man whose death regrettably was not yet actuality, causing her face to flame in embarrassment as she had been caught off guard so ungracefully. Where were her scouting instincts?

"I thought I told you not to _tamper with my affairs_," she said flatly, considerably dragging the last few syllables to emphasize her point. She kept her eyes on the road, pointedly ignoring him.

"I am wondering what will you be bartering with?" he asked nonchalantly. "You hardly have any earthly possessions, to my understanding."

She snapped her head sideward to glare at him. "I did _not_ steal anything, if that's what you're implying. And I happen to have one earthly possession that I'm willing to barter with." She lifted the bundle in her right fist for him to see her dress.

"I've been led to believe that they are Vanora's possessions, not yours," he replied.

Abigail raised an eyebrow quizzically. Surely he had seen that dress before. Slowly, she turned to the bundle- only to find the dark mass of Vanora's dresses.

"Oh gods," she breathed, panic swelling inside her. She began picking at the coarse dresses, letting them fall onto the ground as she willed a trace of white to emerge somehow amidst the forest green fabrics. Her hands now empty, she spun around wildly, scanning the snow for signs of her lost dress. How could she have dropped it? Oh, what was she to do? It was the only thing she could possibly give up without freezing in this cold-

"Here."

She turned around just in time for a piece of cloth to land on her face. She plucked it away, and froze when she saw that she was clutching her lost dress in her hands.

"Oh," she breathed a heavy sigh of relief a few moments later after the shock passed, burying her face in the silky textile. "Thank the _gods_."

"You won't get anything in exchange for that dress," said Tristan slowly.

"Why?" she asked, tearing her numb cheeks away from the dress which was warm- she noted with some guilt as her thoughts flitted back to the ill fate she had hoped would befall him- with his heat. "The cotton was spun from the finest sheep of our village."

"No one cares from what sheep the cotton has been spun while they are fleeing," he said with a hint of annoyance. "Take this."

While she was she brooding over his words on the matter of the source of cotton, for surely, people _must_ care- a black pouch sailed through the air, and on reflex, she caught it with her spare hand. She gasped at its weight, and the quiet tinkle told her what exactly was inside its satin cover.

"I-I cannot take this, sir," she stammered, lost for words as she gaped at the pouch. She lifted her eyes to his, hers still wide from surprise, his fixed on some faraway spot as he adjusted the girth of his horse.

"Buy the provisions you need," he said dismissively, giving the saddle flap a pat when he had finished. "I don't need it."

"But-"

Before she could utter one more word, he had dug his heels into his horse's sides, and they galloped off towards the gate of the fort. Abigail watched his retreating form, intrigued by yet another side of him, when a piercing shriek led her gaze skywards. A lone hawk glided after him, its cry rising and falling with the wind.

She untied the pouch, tilted it upside down, and four gleaming gold coins and a couple of nickels fell onto the hollow of her palm. She gasped again, she could easily afford a horse with four gold coins!

Carefully, she slid the gold and silver pieces into the bag and tied it securely. A warmth of guarantee stirred in the pit of her stomach as she tucked it into her tunic, and she gathered up Vanora's dresses briskly. She then carefully folded up her only dress, silently grateful that she did not have to give it away.

She had yet to thank him- but it was difficult when the man you had to thank had broken your pride and mended it from pieces again too many times before.

--------------

What am I doing here, you say? I'm not supposed to update till this Friday! Well, my friends, it seems that my raving imagination would not leave me alone even during times of darkness a.k.a. examination week. A veeeery long chapter, considering that I should be revising for my History exam now! Naughty me! But I'm particularly pleased with it, a bit of gibbering from a ticked off Abigail, a more irritating Tristan, and a little mad Gawain (please don't be mad with me, MedievalWarriorPrincess!).

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Tristan's an annoying pest, isn't he?

Tristan: I heard that.

Me: Yes, I know you heard that, Tristan. Now get out of my sight.

Tristan: -grunt-

Yes, you read that right, folks. Tristan and me got into sort of a fight. And yes, you're right, it's involved with lasagna. So yes, don't ask, it did NOT go well. I'm never letting Tristan into a kitchen again. Ever.

Alright! Enough of my lasagna nonsense! One of my pathetic attempts to be funny, so please, just laugh to make me happy. Of course, reviewing is another thing you can do to make me a happy bunny. If you didn't know yet, happy authors update rather quickly, so you know what to do!

P.S. Sorry if I sound hyper, I just watched Pirates of the Caribbean and it's freakin' awesome! I'm totally drooling over Jack Spar- ahem, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, I mean. Alright enough nonsense, really, I'm getting sick of myself. Not to mention Tristan's getting jealous (faraway voice: "I'm not!") –rolls eyes- Thank you for your reviews everyone! I'll reply to them very soon :)


	17. Devil

Chapter 17: Devil

The path was silent. The wind seemed to hold its breath as Tristan and his stallion walked down the muddy road with little pools of melted snow in the hollows of the ground. To an outsider, the pair looked as if they were on a leisurely afternoon walk. The handsome steed lifted his head now and then, and jingled his complicated bit out of habit, his neck arched slightly as he lifted his hooves proudly. The rider sat still in the saddle, the reins loose in his hands, his back hunched at a small degree, tendrils of hair curtaining his keen eyes.

However, looks were deceiving. The twosome were far from taking a leisurely walk, they were scouting. Tristan could hear every grain of snow crunching under the hooves of his steed, every shuffle of branches, every flap of wing, every whisper of the wind. But now, he heard nothing save for the movement of his horse.

It was unnatural.

His horse could sense it too. Tristan felt the tension of his muscles as he suspiciously advanced, his ears pricked in full alert, his eyes relentlessly sweeping the dense woods on either sides of them.

Tristan mirrored his horse's actions, his sharp eyesight ever scanning the still paths. He was taut with vigilance, one of his hands lingering on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike. Like a bowstring drawn to its limit, with an arrow notched. Waiting.

He knew they were there. The Woads were there. Everywhere. They lined both sides of the road, since the sparse beginnings of the forests, moving with him, sidling noiselessly over the wet earth, through thick tangles of bushes, up rough bark of trees. Watching him.

Tristan smirked. His instincts told him that they would not strike. They had a better plan- such as the Woad girl at Hadrian's Wall.

He recognized her fancy tattoos, climbing up her slender limbs, vivid blues and greens dotting together her royal background. She was Merlin's daughter, if he was given a wild guess. And the Dark Magician was bound to have a far superior scheme.

No, he would make it out alive.

For the first time that day, he shook aside his braids and lifted his eyes to the black trees.

Fragments of the day he found her flitted across his mind. The sigh of an arrow as it flew by his head, the sight of her landing rather unsteadily into the snow, her ashen face tight with hate, her feeble attempts to cross blades with him. Then it was her painful cry when she fell, the unexpected assault on his leg, the small weight of hers on him, the angry burn of embarrassment as he effortlessly trapped her under him. Her furious, rather than fearful, eyes glaring at him as he asked the same question time after time...

His horse stumbled, and his mind abruptly regained its piercing focus. He growled under his breath, frustrated. She was distracting.

_George_. The name darted into his head for a fleeting moment before fading away, but it was enough to occupy him once again.

Who was he? Her friend? Her neighbour? Her lover?

His back subconsciously stiffened. He tilted his head heavenward once more, judging the position of the hidden sun. It should be well over noon now. It was time to report his findings.

--------------

Tristan heard her before he saw her, as her characteristic cry pierced the winter air. He stood up from where he was waiting on the fortress wall, and made quick calculations in his head. Six hours of swift flying. They would be here a few hours before dawn.

The majestic hawk glided in the air just above Tristan and his galloping stallion, screeching again as they got closer to the gates, demanding entrance from the fortress guards.

The heavy metal gates skewered with deadly spikes groaned as they painstakingly opened just in time for the knight to pass through, his hawk winging over the fortress wall to rejoin her master. The streets were mostly empty with the forthcoming departure, but some locals were unhurriedly going on with their everyday activities. Arthur would have a difficult time persuading such people to go with him.

The grey, weathered stone building which housed the knights' headquarters and the Round Table emerged from the crest of the hill as they galloped up the inclined land. It was as dreary as the sunless days of this desolate island, and though it had been his residence for fifteen years, he could never call it home. It was one miserable place he was glad to leave behind after today.

A servant working at the entrance of the building took Tristan's horse as he entered the building, loosening the first two buttons of his cloak when he felt the warm wave of fire from the grand hall. Maids were bustling around, their arms laden with clothes, food and other provisions. One offered him a goblet of wine, which he refused and continued down the hall.

He took a familiar corridor on the right and ran a hand over his face. He remembered the first time he had walked down this hallway. He was younger then, less somber. He had been with Gareth, Percival, Gawain and Bedivere, sharing vulgar jokes as they went to the chamber under the request from Arthur.

The disbelief and awe that had hit him like a bolt of lightning was still fresh in his memory. He remembered Arthur, smiling softly with pride, standing behind a seat at the massive, Round Table, watching as his brothers as they took in the amazing sight.

Arthur's words, wise and authoritative without effort, still rang in his head.

"Brothers," he had said to his hand-picked cavalry of the best knights of the land. "For men to be men, they must first all be equal. We sit at a round table, at which there is no head, no foot, no place of greater or less importance. We were all born equal and free, let it stay that way till the last breath we take."

Arthur had remained true to his words about equality, but all knew whom was the leader from that day onwards. He was a respected and able commander, a good friend, and a fine man. Tristan had once thought that if it were death by Arthur's command, so be it. It was bound to be a death in honour, and it was no more than a knight could wish for. Now, as he reflected on it, he still thought the same way.

Tristan stopped at the ornate oaken doors of the chamber of the Round Table, and he took a moment to let his eyes slither over the elaborate carvings on the wood of the right door. His eyes rested on lean curves, deep depressions, strokes so light one could barely see them, all pieced as one to flaunt the magnificent Sarmatian goddess of war- a pagan god. The Romans nearly had Arthur's head for his boldness, but the equally stunning carvings of the Christians' God on the other door saved it.

He let a little smirk curl his lips. Two opposing forces in one entrance. Fascinating. The contradiction somehow echoed their situation- Roman to Sarmatians. He wondered why he had never given it as much thought as now.

He knocked twice on the door- the right one- and Arthur's firm "come in" reached his ears as the last of the hollow echoes of his knocks died down.

The door moaned softly on its hinges as it swung open, a more intense surge of warmth welcoming the entering scout. Arthur was at his normal seat at the Round Table, bowed over a mess of parchments, busy scribbling something on a map.

"The Saxons would be here two or three hours before dawn," said Tristan.

Arthur's head snapped up, and he could see the anxiety in his hooded green eyes. The half-Roman sighed loudly and leant back in his chair, while the scout walked to his own chair and sat down, propping his boots onto the table, letting out a sigh of his own.

A restless silence lingered for a moment, then Arthur opened his eyes and straightened his back.

"What about the roads to the South?" he asked, his voice coarse.

Tristan stared at him impassively. He knew Arthur had the answer.

"Woads," said Arthur finally.

Tristan glanced at his papers. He saw the plan of the fortress dotted with ink- battle strategies. He frowned- he should have known.

"I know I could trust you not to tell the others yet, Tristan," said Arthur tiredly. "I will let them know. In time."

He nodded, but did not speak. He knew it was not the time to dissuade Arthur now. He had made up his mind, and no one could do anything about it.

"I trust you know what you are doing," was all Tristan offered.

Arthur gave him a weak smile. "Yes."

Tristan nodded again, then removed his boots from the table and stood up, headed for the door.

"Tristan?"

He stopped.

"Thank you," said Arthur solemnly.

--------------

"I'm sorry, miss, but you must pay for the night," the chubby stable boy told Abigail firmly.

She swallowed the desire to slap him, and tightened her grip on the lead rope instead.

"It's _only_ for tonight, please," she said with the utmost sincerity she could manage. "It means a lot to me."

He shook his head again. "I'm really sorry, but I have to follow my orders."

A mighty jolt on the rough rope nearly pulled her arm out of the socket, and she growled in frustration as her horse started to scramble backwards, tossing his head high in the air and neighing, upset by the mayhem around them.

She had spent the last of the money to buy this horse, a striking black colt, barely out of its first years. His master, an elderly villager, was eager to get rid of him for his hot temperament, and Abigail had to admit that he was ill-tempered, fidgety and impatient. However, he had a strong physique, she knew he could go miles without rest in his youth. Besides, his temper would wear down after a few months' riding, the old man just did not have the time to train him.

But now, she just needed a stall for the night, and she had no money left. Then after that, she needed a bridle and saddle. She definitely could not ride bareback, she would be thrown off before she got on.

Abigail sighed. A horse always meant trouble.

She soothingly ran her hands over the colt's handsome arch of neck, whispering calming words to him. He snorted and neighed a few more times, swinging his strong head from side to side before steadying himself, then turned to bite her.

She shifted just in time to avoid his teeth, and she glared at him, who tried to snipe at her again but reared his head when she raised a hand to slap him.

"I know you have your rules, but I desperately need a stall for my horse tonight," Abigail tried again, with renewed confidence now that she had proof of the horse's difficulty. "Did you see him just now?"

"Lady, you're not getting a stall for tonight and that's final," the stable boy said and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" she called out after him, aggravated. "You can't just leave me here with this beast!"

As if to demonstrate this point, the black stallion suddenly bolted forward towards the crowd in the yard, for some reason or none at all, ears flat, dragging Abigail with him. She shrieked tried to hold her ground, but her boots skidded uselessly over the snow.

"Stop!" she screamed at the horse, but he kept on galloping across the yard, people yelling in alarm as they leapt out of the way of the dashing mad horse.

A blur of grey appeared before them, and the stallion reared up at the unexpected obstruction, throwing Abigail off balance and into the snow. She rolled away before his heavy hooves could hit her, and she could hear a firm voice ordering the frenzied horse to calm down.

Nobody came to help her. After a good length of time, she finally looked up, and found herself beholding a familiar face.

"You saved me again," she commented dryly.

"Is this what you bought with the coins?" asked Tristan with a wry smirk, studying the distressed stallion. He did not show signs of anger towards her rudeness earlier in the morning, and for that she was grateful.

"Lady! Are you alright?" the fat stable boy she had argued with earlier bustled to her side, and kindly helped her on her feet.

"Yes, I'm fine," she answered with a small smile of thanks.

"That is a devil o' a horse," he remarked, pointing a finger at the panting devil, who was held firmly in place by Tristan's steady hands. "He's known for his hellish tempers, you shouldn't be messin' with him."

"Well it should comfort you then to know that his mistress' tempers are no less hellish than his," she replied promptly, gaining a grin from the boy.

"Put this horse in a stall, lad," Tristan told him, handing the lead rope to the openly nervous stable hand. "Give him a bran mash and some hay, it should dampen his temper somehow."

"Aye, sir," he dutifully nodded and trotted away with Abigail's new steed.

"Have you a saddle and bridle for that beast?" asked Tristan as the two disappeared into the stables.

Abashed, Abigail shook her head slowly. "He used up most of the money."

"I'll arrange it for you," he said simply. "You leave tomorrow at first light, I presume?"

She nodded, meeting his eyes uneasily. "Yes."

But he was not looking at her. "I'll see you before then."

With that, he eased his horse into a trot and followed her horse's tracks into the

stables.

--------------

Night had fallen, offering not even a silver strand of moonlight. A dwindling candle served as the only illumination as she walked past stall after stall, straining to see the horses inside. Curious brown eyes stared at her as she glided by, and she instinctively smiled at them.

A shadowy figure caught her eye. She had found him, standing in the corner, ears laid flat. They stared at each other for a while, and Abigail could not help but admire his sleek beauty, the dark and light accenting his slender body. Devilishly handsome, and hellishly dangerous.

She sighed softly, then leaned on the wooden door of the stall.

"Maybe we should at least try to get along with each other?" she asked the stallion quietly.

"You would get along fine."

Strangely, she was not startled by the low voice in the darkness. Maybe she had expected him. He _had_ said that he would see her before she left after all.

"He is a devil," she said softly with a careless shrug. "So am I."

He spoke no more, and she let the hush drift in the cold air of the stables. Then a hand was at the tail of her spine, slowly moving its way up.

"Why?" he asked.

"What?"

"A devil," he clarified.

She closed her eyes as the fingers reached the back of her neck, gently massaging the soft skin there.

"I am too weak," she blurted out truthfully. "I cannot resist the temptation to live, I'm too afraid of death."

"The will to live is human nature," he reasoned.

"Animals live," she recalled her mother's words. "Life is much more than survival.

Another hand snaked its way around her waist pulling her towards him. She found it harder to breathe, but she ignored the hitch in her throat.

"I am an animal now. Everything I do, I do it in return for survival. There is nothing to live for any more. It's horrible. When everything in front of you is a blur, when every step you take might take you to the depths of hell, when you have nowhere and no one to turn to-"

She broke off with a sob, and she leant her head against his strong shoulder, letting go of tears unshed. He had his arms around her, and she relished in the warmth his body gave her. Again, the feeling of warm safety enveloped her. This felt so right, as if it were meant to be this way.

With a start, she pulled away, frantically dabbing stray tears from her face.

"Tristan," she struggled for words. "I- we-"

He reached out and tangled his fingers in her fair hair, running them down the lengths of locks, gently tilting her head upwards.

"You're leaving tomorrow," he whispered, his breath hot on her throat. "As I am."

"Tristan, stop, please," she said determinedly, though she was yearning to feel his skin upon hers, to feel the sensations he gave him every time he touched her.

She heard him heave a sigh, then his heat left her neck, and he withdrew his hand. He stepped back, and she instantly felt the film of coldness conceal him.

"It's better to leave without having to leave anything behind," he drawled eventually.

Emboldened by his words, she moved towards him, and reached up to cup his face. It felt weathered, like hide exposed to too many days of snow and sun. Then she let her fingers slide down his face, and she planted a kiss on his jaw.

"There is so much to leave behind," she corrected him, then swept out of the stables.

--------------

Omigosh! I actually managed to finish this chapter! I'm leaving tomorrow for my school's Beijing trip, that's why I'm so anxious to get it up. I'm returning on Christmas Eve, but I won't be updating then, so an early MERRY CHRISTMAS to all of you!

I hope you liked this chapter… I know you're disappointed, but the it's to build up the climax of the next. I'm quite happy with this chapter though, I hope you feel the same!

Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter! I don't have time to reply to you today, but I'll do that when I return :) See ya!


	18. Choices

Chapter 18: Choices

They were here. An entire army- three thousand men.

Tristan stared at the fierce orange globs of fire in the field a few hundred feet from the fortress walls grimly, alongside the other knights and anxious Roman legionnaires.

The air was cold and thick with tension in the dark predawn hour. Villagers were crowded at the foot of the wall, murmurs traveling within the mass of frightened peasants. A lone wail of an infant rang out, and Tristan turned to Arthur, who was standing beside him, the Woad on his other side. He was too gazing intently at the Saxon camp. Tristan noted the familiar determination in his dark green eyes, and the tight clench of his fingers on the broken ramparts. He glanced at the Woad woman, graceful in her long dress, with her enticing eyes on the forest. Tristan followed her gaze and rested his eyes on the dense woods, he could see nothing save the sinister branches. But he knew what lurked in the gloom.

Woads. Arthur should have known she was of Woad blood now. He eyed his commander closely, then at Guinevere. Perhaps he was doing this for her. She may be one of his reasons- amongst duty, honour and destiny.

Now, Arthur straightened his back, and with one last hard look at the fires he cast a sympathetic glance at the defenceless serfs, then turned to his brothers, and let his eyes linger on every one of them with both grief and pride.

"Knights," his voice was low but one could hear unwavering strength in it- strength of a leader.

"My journey with you must end here," he continued stiffly. "May God go with you."

All let out groans of frustration as Arthur marched by, with Lancelot and Guinevere following suit. Tristan felt his heart tighten ever so slightly as he watched Lancelot trying to change his best friend's mind, only segments of his fiery speech reaching his ears.

"Again," growled Galahad suddenly as he slammed a fist down on the wall. "He has to carry the whole world on his shoulders."

Bors, for once, was silent. Tristan's keen ears picked up soft pads of feet from the stairs, and he watched Vanora approach her lover quietly, a sad understanding on her face. Shock seized her as she took in the sight before her, then Bors gently took her hand and kissed it.

"We leave at first light," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Get the children ready."

Vanora lifted her eyes to Tristan's briefly, and he nodded in reassurance. He turned back to the shadows of the field as the others trudged away, leaving him to his own thoughts.

She was right. There was so much to leave behind, much more than he had anticipated. He silently groaned, and ran a calloused hand down the length of his face. _She was only a woman_, he told himself.

But then, maybe not quite. She had killed Dagonet- Tristan had no idea how he came to overlook that so easily. If she were a man, he would have killed her without a slightest thought. No, he would have killed her if she were another woman, but she _her_.

Unintentionally, Tristan recalled the other times when he had had feelings for other women. The wife of a filthy rich landlord, the lady promised to a Roman lord in marriage, a dying village girl- always the wrong woman at the wrong time.

Something akin to anger rose within him as he pushed himself from the wall. The taste of freedom had already turned stale.

--------------

They were here.

Abigail's fingers were icy cold as they gripped the jagged stone wall, shivering with fear as the Saxon campfires glared at her, threatening to reveal her hiding place at a collapsed part of the fortress wall.

She had to leave now, another minute at this place meant a greater chance of getting caught. Shakily, she hauled herself onto her feet, slinking in the shadows of the eroded parapet. Her ears were ringing in the eerie silence, her footfalls were too loud as she stumbled over the broken pieces of stones and fallen branches, her breathing constricted.

The moon lent little light as she staggered blindly, unbridled dread making her head pound and, she deemed, half-mad. Shards of memories of black ships gliding in white mist, aflame corpses, watching armour-clad men walk over burning bodies between leaves, blood-curdling screams-

Suddenly, she discovered it was her own screams she heard, then a hand was slapped over her mouth, nearly smothering her. She kicked and lashed at the solid weight behind her, only to earn a brutal kick in her thigh. She tried to cry, but the hand was still covering her mouth and nose, and she could not breathe. She recognized the stink of the hand though, and she stilled as she felt another hand slide down the side of her body brazenly.

"We been worried sick, dearie," a sickening voice whispered into her ear. "Just where you been? My lord is beyond angry."

The filthy fingers trailed over the exposed skin of her neck, and she shuddered. The Saxon laughed, scornfully, as chapped lips replaced the rough fingers.

"My lord wants information," said the Saxon as he continued his assault. "Maps, strategies, everything. You report to me in one hour, or else-"

Abigail felt the pressure of a blade on her thigh, slicing the thin fabric of her breeches open, cold air immediately creeping into the opening.

She could feel the evil grin on the back of her neck before she was pushed to the ground. She ventured a look at the Saxon, then scrambled to her feet, but stopped when she felt a sword at her throat.

"And you'll have me to deal with," he warned in a low growl then faded into the black of night.

--------------

Tristan walked slowly towards the stairs, dragging his steps. His boots made no sound on the grand marble floor of the hall, once glimmering with a milky glow, but now grey and washed with age.

He lifted his eyes to the corridor leading to the Round Table, and he stopped, staring at the dark corridor.

He wanted to see the Round Table again, one last time.

When he was once again at the door of the goddess of war, he heard the shuffle of parchments and a soft hiss of fire. He frowned and shook his head. Arthur should be resting, instead of fussing over maps right now. Without knocking, he pushed the door open, and stopped short.

Blue eyes he had grown used to glared coldly back at him, and he took in the sight before him. Parchments were spread out messily on the Round Table at Arthur's seat, a candle sitting on a stack of yellowed papers, a few bounded scrolls beside them, her head bowed over a large map, a quill in one hand.

She was stealing.

He felt his rage stirring inside him as she continued to stare at him vacantly. She was like a child caught sneaking into her mother's kitchen for a treat that was supposed for after supper. Her seemingly chaste face could feign innocence without effort, and now, she showed no signs of guilt as she returned his gaze openly.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked eventually through gritted teeth, his low voice not failing to carry the anger across the room to her.

She lifted her chin while rolling up the map she was writing on, and replied without looking at him. "I have told you before- I remain loyal to my commander."

"And you betray us?" he felt a cord of his restraint snap, and he took a step firm forward. "After all you have received from us?"

"Duty calls," she responded nonchalantly.

"Duty? To whom?" asked Tristan, his voice rising. "The Saxons?" he spat.

She shot him a glare, and answered in the same tone. "As a matter of fact, yes."

He watched her gather several scrolls in a huff, then shoved the papers into a sack. Slinging it across her back, she reached back for her hair to tie it up with a piece of black cloth. Her fingers fumbled, and her eyebrows knitted together in frustration, using more force than needed and ended up tearing the cloth. With a strangled noise, she threw the ribbon onto the floor and let the whitish strands ripple back into place.

"Goodbye," she said curtly, then made to march right by him.

A red-hot fury seized him, and he grabbed her arm roughly when she passed by, pulling her towards him.

"Don't you think of leaving this room with those scrolls," he growled, his eyes blazing through the mane of dark hair that had fallen across them.

Without warning, a light dagger had been whipped out and rested at the crook of his neck. Tristan glanced indifferently at it. Its blade was razor sharp and its hilt glowing, newly polished. So she had spent his money wisely.

"That's the third time you threatened to kill me," he informed her tonelessly, still studying the rather inelegant symbols on the silver hilt.

"Don't make me do it, then," she snarled and gave him a harsh push before continuing her way to the doors.

His head raving, he plucked his own dagger from his boot and sent it flying. It soared past her and landed with a loud thump, half of its blade sunken into the fine wood of the doors.

Tristan watched her slowly turn around, her face paralleling his. Furious.

"No one threatens me then gets away with it," he said, closing the distance between them slowly.

She did not move as he approach, head held high, her hands fisted and knuckles white. Her face seemed paler than it had been in days, but her eyes were wide and intense, flecks of gold amidst a pallid blue. She seemed somewhat daunting, haunted.

Where was the tenderness, the weakness even, he saw a mere hour or two ago? He thought he had banished the aloof emptiness in her, but he was wrong. It was here again. The detachment as she glared at him the same way she used to. No, he was wrong. He overestimated himself. Why would she change because of him?

Because he cared for her. There was no denying it now, as he returned her steely gaze. He cared for her despite her imperfections and her wrongdoings. He cared for her because she was different, in a bad sense, perhaps, but that did not change his feelings to her.

They were facing each other now, Tristan forcing himself to casually lean against the door while she stood rigidly, her hand on the lever. Reaching over her head and feeling for the bolts, his fingers found them and leisurely slid them into place, the rusty creaks of the metal accenting the silence between them. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, and he was convinced that he heard hers too- racing.

Deliberately, he folded his arms neatly across his chest, letting his hair fall onto his eyes to hide his raging emotions. She was still glaring at him, unwavering.

"What happened?" he asked.

Her lips were a stern, thin line, and her scowl deepened. Tristan felt a jolt of frustration- did she not trust him?

"Nothing happened, I assure you," she replied in a steady voice.

Tristan stared hard at her, hoping to break her resolve. She did not flinch, not even blink. He no longer saw the woman he had held and comforted; he saw the murderer, the cold-blooded traitor he found in the woods. Part of the Saxons. An _enemy_.

He leaned forward and whispered harshly in her ear, "You are not walking out of these doors with those papers, _traitor_."

She was quicker this time, Tristan did not even see the dagger before he felt the same coldness at his throat, pressing mercilessly onto his skin.

"You underestimate me, _sir_," she spat back, gritting her teeth.

"I think I do," he said, looking at her meaningfully. "_Abigail_."

She might as well have been told that her baby sister had come back to life. Shock filled the empty void of her blue depths as she gaped at him, wide-eyed. Taking advantage of the situation, he grabbed her hands and pinned them to the door, easily pushing her against the door.

"You've played enough games," he said, his voice gruff.

With a growl, his lips crashed onto hers- there was no holding back this time. He felt her body stiffen under his, and her lips were passive. He frowned, but persisted. He needed her to know how she made him feel.

A loud clang was heard when she dropped the dagger unceremoniously, and suddenly, she was responding vigorously to his every move. A pair of smooth hands encircled his neck, pulling him down, closer. She let him in, and he tasted every part of her mouth, satisfied when she moaned in lust for more. The walls seemed close in around them, and he was getting dizzy with the heat. She broke away first, gasping for air. He moved down to her neck without delay, his lips gliding over her skin as she leaned back against the door, her fingers threading in his hair, breathing heavily.

"Now, tell me what happened," he breathed hotly into her ear, pushing back the hair that was strewn over the side of her face.

"They found me," she panted, lifting her chin to give him space as he buried his face in her throat, lightly nipping the tender skin. "They want information."

Tristan heard the fear in her voice, and he reached out and touched her cheek gently. She leaned into his hand, closing her eyes, and he planted a kiss on her eyelid without thought.

"I have to report to them in less than an hour," she continued, pulling his face down to her own. She barely brushed her lips across his. "Or I don't know what will happen."

"You don't have to go back," he said against her lips, hoping to sound comforting.

She shook her head. "You don't understand, Tristan. They will find me. No one betrays the Saxons, no one runs from them."

He pulled back slightly to look at her. To his surprise, she looked serene, a calm acceptance in her delicate features. He opened his mouth to ask her to go with him, but stopped himself. It would be selfish, to ask her to abandon her home. He had been craving for his home's embrace for fifteen years, wanting somewhere to belong to. How could he ask her to leave?

As if reading his mind, she gave him a crooked smile, then said, "I am of this land. I was born here, I will die here as well."

Their lips met once again, tongues twining in a slow and lingering rhythm. His hand slowly slid down the side of her body, over alluring curves, down to her thigh. His fingers grazed a short length of silky flesh amongst rough fabric, and she arched into him, doing explorations of her own.

"Your breeches are torn," said Tristan breathlessly as he drew away.

"I- got them caught in some- branches," she replied rather hesitantly.

He frowned in suspicion, then traced the rip thoughtfully. It was a clean slit, with no frays. It could not have been branches.

"They have hurt you?" he asked quietly.

She refused to look at him, but idly fiddled with the neckline of his tunic.

"They would have," she said, giving a careless shrug.

"Abigail," he said, turning the name slowly over his tongue. She seemed to start at the sound of her name, but did not look up. Sliding a finger under her chin, he tilted her head upwards, catching her gaze again.

"You said you have no choice," he recalled her words that night in the woods, strangely alike to this night. "You're wrong. You always have a choice."

"Do I?" she whispered dubiously, drawing circles on his tanned face.

Tristan nodded. "You have a whole life in front of you. You can choose to live it, or you can choose to waste it."

"Thank you, Tristan," she smiled weakly, but her words were true.

Taking both of her hands, he brought them up and kissed them, his eyes on hers all the while.

"Don't choose to waste it," he said.

--------------

Merry belated Christmas! Gosh! I'm back from Beijing and I've updated this story! I'm so proud of myself:D And I bought a pair of jeans today! Okay, I'm sort of random today, but yeah, the whole Beijing trip was random, so my new motto is: "Be random!"

Tristan: You are _so_ random. (magically pops away)

Me: (blinks) Now _that's_ random!

Anyways, thank you for the wonderful comments! It's awesome of you to take time to review even during the hectic holidays! Thanks again, love ya all! (huggles and chocolate and strawberry knight cookies to everyone) I'll be updating soon-ish, I can't promise anything, I have some stuff to do during the holidays, but I'll try!

And for those waiting for updates in my other stories, I can just say that I'll try my best. I've lost my muse for Destined To Be, and it sucks, but I'm open to any suggestions!

So that's all for today, I hope you enjoyed this chapter… they are more "officially" together now, aren't they? ;) Buh-bye!


	19. Destiny Awaits

Chapter 19: Destiny Awaits

She had not betrayed them.

Before dawn, Tristan found a body lying in the bushes at an abandoned stretch of destroyed walls that had never been repaired since the day they fell. A crimson line traced the dead Saxon's neck, his limbs were frozen stiff and a dagger with its blade stained red was disposed of carelessly near the corpse.

He picked it up and once again found himself confronted by the clumsy lines of the same dagger that had been put under his nose some time ago. He threw it back into the bushes and walked away, knowing it had served its purpose well.

And she had left.

The stables were strangely quiet, as though even the creatures were aware of the bloodshed in store for the new day. Jols merely nodded at him before emptying an unoccupied stall of its dry hay- the stall which had housed the devil horse for the night.

Now, Tristan lifted his head briefly and surveyed the grey clouds looming ominously over the slow-moving procession towards Rome, and beyond that- home. Sarmatia. He was riding next to Lancelot, whose arrogant head was down and watching the mud their horses were treading on. In front of them was the waggling wagon in which Vanora and Bors's little bastards were nestled cozily, if not comfortably. Bors rode next to them, brooding silently. Vanora was gazing out of the window sadly, her eyes lingering on the fort where she had lived for a better half of her life. Galahad and Gawain rode behind the weaponry cart driven by a lad, and the silence they shared spoke louder than words about their frame of mind.

A flutter of wings and a mischievous chirp brought his eyes up again, and he watched his hawk glide in a circle before dropping down to his outstretched arm.

"Where've ya been?" he murmured with the smallest hint of a lopsided smile. "Where've ya been?"

She simply squawked and bobbed her head up and down, making as if to take flight, but merely hopped on his arm playfully.

Had it been another day, it would have been enough to put a fleeting grin on his face. But not today.

Arthur had bade them farewell without a word as they gathered at the courtyard outside the stables for the final time. Lancelot had grasped his life-long friend's shoulder, then mounted and led them out of the fort to catch up with the caravan, surrounded by a large band of retreating Roman legionnaires. At least, for the head of it, which included the Bishop and Lady Fulcinia's carriages. The poor carts and wagons trailing behind them brimming with peasants who were unwilling to risk their lives at the hands of the Saxons were watched over by the knights.

Those who were willing, they remained at the fort under Arthur's command, including the small band of Roman soldiers who had promised allegiance to him.

The air smelled of Death itself- heavy, suffocating. The expanse of grass between their winding path to safety and the Southern wall was hazy with early morning mist, and Tristan could see preparations of the impending battle had been readied. Deep pits filled with black pitch and small fires dotted the field, and he felt a vast presence in the forests on their left.

Loud thuds of hooves interrupted Tristan's thoughts as Bors suddenly turned from the line and galloped to the Wall, where, beyond it, Arthur was astride his steed on a grassy hill, both in full battle armour, overlooking their departure.

"Artorius!" bellowed Bors, thrusting his sword into the air while reining his horse in. "Ruuuus!"

Artorius remained still for a moment, then lifted Excalibur, which caught the sun rising ever slowly from the East behind its wielder, glinting majestically as Arthur yelled back their battle cry.

"Ruuuus!"

His call, strong and clear, echoed in the still morning air. Satisfied with the reaction, Bors wheeled his horse around and galloped back to the caravan.

Tristan smirked when Bors caught his eye, and the bald knight grinned forcefully, trying to reinforce his usual humour.

"Had to make sure he's in the right side of his mind," he shrugged nonchalantly and trotted forward to taunt the Bishop's secretary.

Tristan turned to the hill again, but there was no one there.

--------------

The sun had risen, its glorious rays were hues of pink and gold as they stretched over miles of grey grass, giving vibrancy to the lifeless plain tinted with sparkles of melted snow.

Abigail halted Breamas at the crest of the gentle slope which dropped to the flatland, unfolding as far as the eye could see. Breamas snorted in disdain and rebelliously pulled on the reins before stopping, prancing a bit as if to inform her that he was _not_ obeying her command. She shook her head ruefully. He gave her plenty of reasons to name him after the Devil.

They had been travelling at a steady, leisurely pace for about an hour. She knew she should be hurrying on with her way, venturing down as far as the Southern coastline before turning back North along the coast. But instead, she found herself reluctant to let Breamas go faster than a quick trot. For one, his temper discouraged her from letting him go too quick. Losing her horse in a time like this was not desirable.

Other than that, she had started to doubt her decision to leave. She was running away from a chance at vengeance, something she had hoped for since the day her shock had subsided and hate had settled in. Why was she running now? She had started last night, why could she not find the same courage to turn back now?

Because, for the first time in her life, she truly felt free. The soft warmth of the rising sun, the silent woods, the clear air, even the slicing winds- they gave her a sense of freedom she had never felt before. No restraints, no boundaries as she gazed out at the golden plain.

She felt Tristan's pain now. Freedom never meant so much to her before, and she did not want to lose it. She definitely would if she returned and fought- for either side.

Yet, she would never _be_ truly free until the Saxons left this island. That was what Arthur was fighting for- freedom. To be completely free from the fear of staying in one's homeland, without having to look over one's shoulder.

A nagging conscience planted itself in her mind as she dug her heels into Breamas's sides, just as a earsplitting whistle pierced the air, unsettling both horse and woman.

--------------

Tristan's stallion jerked to a halt and started to back up at the shriek of the Sarmatian Dragon- a scream that they were familiar with but had not heard for a long time. In the background, a steady beat of Saxon drums had begun, and the horses neighed and tossed their heads impatiently.

Petting his dappled horse's handsome neck soothingly, he glanced up at the knights who had gathered, not even noticing that the caravan had drawn to a halt. They traded glances, each knowing what they had to do, and small smiles of an unspoken agreement adorned their grim faces.

Tristan lifted his hawk to eye-level, and she cocked her little head to one side, staring beadily at him.

"Hey," he said, his smile growing an inch broader. "You're free."

She stared at him some more, then, hesitantly, she spread her wings. He watched her hover over them, as if waiting for him to change his mind. When he did not, she deflected her course southwards to her freedom, while they prepared to fight for theirs.

--------------

Abigail practically hauled Breamas to a halt again, and nearly got dismantled from the saddle. She had to go back now, the staccato of the Saxon drums grew louder and louder in her ears, daring her, mocking her. If she was going to die, then let her die free and let it be for her own people.

"You want to run?" she asked Breamas, who was ill-temperedly flinging his head from side to side, flaring his nostrils. "Run swiftly now for me."

The Devil delightedly obliged, and was no more than a shadow of black as he galloped over the plain back towards the fort where destiny awaited.

--------------

I'm sorry for not updating forever… I've turned to update my other two stories which have been idle for some time. I apologize for the short chapter, but I really don't have enough time to type up anything longer. Now you have some answers to your questions, but the biggest is yet to come… will Tristan live?

Okay, I sound like a deluded witch or something. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for the reviews for the previous one! I will update as soon as I can, with a long chapter packed with (I hope) action and adventure! Goodbye for now!


	20. Battle to Peace

_Here, there be monsters!_

Please note that this chapter contains violence.

_Readers, ye be warned!_

Oh, and heartbreak.

Free Kleenex tissues at the end of this chapter!

Chapter 20: Battle to Peace

Breamas's speed rivaled that of the wind's as he led Abigail through the maze of the forest, his hooves cleverly sending them out of the way of branches, sharp stones and tangled weeds. The sun's warm rays streamed into the cold forest in golden pillars through cracks between barren branches and fallen leaves, lending the galloping stallion's black coat a moment's bronze as he dashed past strips of sunlight.

Abigail hung onto the saddle like a fragile plant holding onto its roots in a storm. All she saw were flashes of brown and green, and when she looked up, she saw an occasional hue of blue peeking through the treetops. She had no say in what direction Breamas was going, but she was trusting his senses as well as hers, which was assuring her they were headed to the Wall.

Dried leaves littered in their trail were raked up from their slumber, cracking like twigs burning in angry flames. As the one burning in her heart.

Suddenly, she was not in the saddle on Breamas, but on the broad bare back of Ionúin- her family's gentle, dark bay mare. She was not galloping along desolate, unknown paths in a forest, but down the grassy winding road towards the beach she knew so well.

_"'Gail! Wait for us!" cried Erlina, her fiery ginger hair catching the wind as she urged her father's old horse on._

_"I'll have your head when I catch up with you!" added Maeve, more mischief than vexation in her clear voice as she raced after her two other friends._

_"I'll worry about it when you do!" shouted Abigail over her shoulder, laughing when she heard Maeve's groan of frustration._

_She was nearing the beach now, she could hear the familiar thunder of rolling waves, then the soothing wash of them when they leapt ashore. She could hear children squealing in glee as they splashed each other with the cool salty water at the edge of the shore, or as they chased each other down the sandy stretch of the beach, or as they found their playmates' hiding place in the same hole inside the abandoned Captain Bonnet's Cave._

_The final bend was looming into sight, and Abigail eagerly clucked the roof of her mouth with her tongue, spurring Ionúin on. She could see the black rocks that adorned one end of the beach, the fine golden grains of sand winking in the sunlight, the translucent blue waves, and the rounded pebbles that had endured the seven seas before being delivered to rest on the tranquil shore-_

_Then she heard Francesca's screams, her voice vibrating with terror and deadly agony. Her father's frantic shouts. "'Gail! Run! Run!" Her mother's sweet voice breaking down into sobs. A flurry of voices of pain, scrambling feet, then silence._

_Ionúin had stopped in her tracks, jostling backwards nervously. Abigail nudged her sides, forcing her forwards, towards the beach, but as they rounded the turn, she could see nothing through the thick fog of her tears._

--------------

Tristan never took his eyes off the tightly packed rows of Saxon soldiers, ramming their spears into the earth in a steady staccato with the accompaniment of drums as they chanted incoherently but unrelentingly. He fondled his the arc of his bow nearly absentmindedly, tracing the fine wood and the newly replaced bowstring, his fingers lusting to string an arrow and put it through the hearts of the dirty creatures.

He waited patiently. The battle would begin before long- he always knew when. The tension was high in the air, every man taut with anticipation.

They were waiting for the other to make the first move.

He finally tore his gaze from the army, and looked at Arthur, who was standing a way off, grimly staring at his enemies, gripping Excalibur with one hand and rested the blade on the back of the other.

Tristan decided that Arthur was a majestic sight to behold. He had seen his commander in full Roman military uniform before, but today, he looked exceptionally imposing. The sunlight bounced off the polished silver of his armour, as well as that of his stallion, and mostly, the sharpened blade of Excalibur.

The sword was a legend- he began to wonder if the man was a legend as well.

Suddenly, the chants grew louder, and Tristan diverted his sight to the Saxons. A light infantry was making their way to the open gates, from which grey smoke drifted lazily, yet threateningly. The knights watched the Saxons approach the gates cautiously, then, a single battle cry sounded, and the rest joined while they rushed through the metal gates.

Arthur now turned his stead around and faced his men, his tone steely with fortitude. "Knights."

Lancelot gathered his reins, brought his dragon talisman to his lips as habit required, and smiled at his friend. "We're with you, Arthur."

"As always," added Galahad.

Bors snorted, while the others grinned in amusement. Arthur shook his head with a small smile, then straightened his face and regarded each of them sternly. Tristan held his gaze for a moment, then gave him the smallest of nods.

The gates closed with a metallic screech. Arthur now faced the smoky battleground, and the knights followed, standing in the Dragon Formation, Dagonet's place empty.

Then, without warning, Arthur thrust Excalibur heavenwards, then galloped down the hill, bellowing, "Ruuus!"

--------------

Abigail could hear the battle raging, she was very close now. Breamas showed no signs of weariness nor anxiety as they neared the menacing cries of combat. In fact, he seemed to get more eager with each step towards the noise, his ears pricked and his strides smart. She smiled in spite of herself. For once, she was glad to have found him.

She was, once again, shaken by qualms of uncertainty. Her mind was tearing into two, that of reason and of fear. But there was a thread of strength that spurred her on, and she hung onto it with all her might.

There was no turning back now, she told herself firmly.

They approached the edge of the forest, and Abigail frantically pulled back on the reins. Breamas gave a snort of displeasure, but displayed a rare obedience as he skidded to a halt.

She patted the side of his sweaty neck and surveyed the battle from the shelter of the trees.

The battlefield was on open ground, with pits of fire punctuating the wide stretch flatland. A large trench in dying flames in the centre divided the field into two, and on both sides, the battle was in full swing.

Abigail swallowed shakily when she witnessed a Woad cutting off a Saxon's legs, then severing his head as an afterthought. She had seen battles before, but to be in one- it was an intimidating thought.

Breamas started pulling on the reins, as if impatient to be part of the fight. Abigail hesitated. She had no armour, no weapon- except for the horse she was riding- how could she go into a battle like this?

She spotted a Saxon soldier, bloodied and slightly dazed, trotting towards the canopy of trees. Grabbing the chance, she kicked Breamas into a canter, and knocked the soldier flat on his back before he noticed. Then she halted Breamas and leapt off the saddle, kicking the Saxon in his face and knocked him out cold with a broken nose.

She quickly disarmed him, taking his array of daggers and his sharp but heavy sword. She picked up an abandoned Saxon shield, then climbed back up Breamas, who had waited dutifully to her surprise.

Her confidence renewed by the armaments, Abigail spurred Breamas into a gallop, running straight into the bedlam, looking for one person- Cerdic.

She dodged the soldiers- Woads, Saxons, Britons and Romans- not wanting to have a hand in the bloodshed as long as she could avoid it. She had killed before, but never willingly. She hated the stench of blood, and she hated taking lives. She felt a saltiness rising to her throat as the scent of death closed in about her, but she forced it down. Turning sick at the moment was not an ideal plan.

Suddenly, something attached itself to her back, and she screamed as she stumbled off the saddle, hitting the ground hard on her back. Her sword flew out of her fingers and she panicked. The thing threw itself onto her before she could get her focus back, and a sword was at her throat before she could scream again.

"It's you?"

Abigail's head stopped turning, and she frowned at the beautiful face staring down at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"It's me," she said, an unexpected smile hanging on her thin lips. "Guinevere."

She recognized the Woad lady in a snap, and accepted her hand and let her haul her up to her feet.

"You shouldn't use this," said Guinevere disgustedly, stripping her of the Saxon shield. "Wear this."

The Woad took a talisman attached to a long piece of string from her scanty battle uniform which was identical to the one she was wearing herself, and put it around Abigail's neck.

"This will protect you. Perhaps you do not believe it, but it will." said Guinevere seriously, then she pressed her shield into Abigail's hands. "Take this as well."

"But don't you need it?" asked Abigail, touched by the lady's kindness.

"I'll be fine," she said confidently, turning to go. "Keep your Saxon weapons out of sight."

Abigail nodded and watched her go, leaping towards a Saxon agilely and killing him swiftly. She shuddered at the sight, then turned and started running towards the direction of the trench, all the while scanning the grounds for any attackers.

Hearing a loud shriek from her right, she quickly whipped a dagger from her belt and swung to the left, seeing a Woad warrior sprinting towards her with his spear raised.

"Stop!" she yelled, putting her hands up. "I am not your enemy!"

But he did not, and started to pull his arm back to ready for the launching of his weapon. Reluctantly but resolvedly, Abigail flung her dagger at him with all her might, aiming for his bare chest. He easily dodged, then let loose his spear. Suddenly alert, she watched the movement of the spear carefully as it mounted the air, then began to fall- and rolled out of its deadly spike just in time as it hit the earth with a monstrous force.

For the second time within minutes, Abigail found herself struggling against a huge weight upon her chest. She gasped as she blocked the violent blow of the Woad's broad sword with the small dagger she had been hanging onto, and gritted her teeth as she strained to hold the blade from slicing her throat.

"I'm an ally!" she managed between strangled attempts to breathe.

The Woad simply pushed harder on the hilt, and Abigail screeched in frustration. She felt that her right leg was free of any constraints, and brought it hard down onto the Woad.

Wherever it hit, it must have been painful, for he yelled aloud and rolled off her. She jumped to her feet and knocked the sword of his hands, fitting the heel of her foot at his throat.

"I am not an enemy!" she spat at him, holding up the talisman Guinevere gave her.

Only did then she realize that he did not know her language. A look of apology washed over his painted face after he took a good look at the charm, and he scrambled to his feet. He hurriedly offered her a shorter sword, muttered a few words in which she recognized in Gaelic, then bade her farewell.

Abigail staggered to her feet, panting, already feeling exhausted from two encounters. She looked around the vast fields where fights and killings were going on continuously, and felt all of a sudden vulnerable.

She was in a battle. A _real _battle, that might last for hours, days or even weeks. A battle in which people died, and killed without mercy. There was no one or nothing to protect her, she had no one to rely on. She had only herself to watch her back.

She had seen many a battles, but not one this large or this fierce. And never had she _been_ in one.

She was very afraid.

Without a horse, it was much more difficult to navigate the grounds. She crossed blades with those who challenged her, and thankfully, Woads took over every time when they saw her talisman and her sword. Abigail continued towards the trench, her head getting dizzy from veering her head from side to side, her blue eyes were wide and watery from the burning pitch. Her throat was uncomfortably dry, and she nervously swallowed, trying to moisturize the near scorching column.

Then a Saxon came into sight, and without any hesitation, he hurtled towards her with his sword raised. As he drew near, Abigail recognized the ugly scar that ran down the length of his face. She smirked grimly. He was one of Cynric's men, who had taken pleasure from beating her, until she dragged a dagger down his always sneering face. She steadied herself- she was ready for revenge.

--------------

Abigail was covered in grime, sweat, dried blood and whatnot, wielding a newly acquired sword from a fallen Roman soldier. She was raving- she felt her pulse running wildly, her heart wrongly exhilarated, her breath heavy with anticipation.

So this was how one survived in battle- by losing oneself in the brutality and indulging oneself in pain.

She had lost track of the minutes or even hours, and the tally of men she had slain. She had nearly let her quest slip behind her mind if it were not for the constant pain deep inside her. The sorrow that kept her from being wholly consumed by animal instinct.

She was unharmed save for a number of mere scrapes and bruises, but she was aware that her muscles were starting to ache, and her vision was blurring ever so slightly. She shook off these worries though, and took a moment to survey the field.

Strangely, there were times when the battle would quiet down- slight as it might be- as if allowing the warriors an instant to take a breather, then when they had caught their breath, the fights would stir up. It was a balance that was naturally achieved, and despite the circumstances, Abigail found herself marveling at the untold order.

She had reached the edge of the trench, and she looked into the deep depression. It was filled with black liquid and the remains of a large fire was evident in the heavy smokes that rose from its depth. It was too wide to jump across, but as she looked on, she found that she had nearly gone far enough to go around it.

A fresh peal of aggressive cries pronounced the end of the grace period, and Abigail picked up her sword and ran to the gap that would take her to the other side of the battle.

--------------

Tristan almost serenely picked off a dozen Saxons with the last of his arrows, each dead before they could utter a yelp of pain. He would have shot them with less force so they would have to writher to death, but with the fact that they were sorely outnumbered even with the participation of the Woads, it was not worth the risk.

His stallion brought them into the centre of the battle where the fighting was vicious and unforgiving, and he leapt off the saddle, sweeping out his sword as he landed on the ground left barren by thousands of tramping feet.

He slowly circled, his weapon tilted to the ground, as he waited. Not an instant later, a possessed Saxon rushed at him with his axe held above his axe. Easily enough, the scout thrust his sword through his guts, and the Saxon fell dead with his eyes, still bearing the slightly deranged expression.

He carefully preserved his energy, using minimal time to finish off his attackers, and hardly moved from his ground. The enemies seemed willing enough to throw their lives away as they flung themselves at Tristan, who took no more than a blink of the eye to plunge his sword into their hearts or severe their heads with a clean swipe.

A circle of dead men surrounded him, and Tristan stepped over the corpses, mercilessly grinding his heels into sliced flesh and some yet undead, groaning men. He swept his gaze across the field, and saw Bors, still horsed, dragging a dying Saxon by the tip of his sword for a distance before letting his horse trample him to death. Tristan smirked humourlessly, then started towards a few stupefied Saxons who Arthur was fighting skillfully.

"I'll leave them to you, then," he grinned at Tristan as he reached the crowd with only three Saxons alive, swerving their swords blindly.

He simply nodded and completed Arthur's unfinished task by stabbing the done in Saxon in the neck. Then he turned rhythmically and parried a stroke by the other, kicking him in the middle before spinning to cut the third diagonally from shoulder to hip. The Saxon howled in pain and dropped to his knees, while the other growled and leapt forward to strangle Tristan, only to find a sword sticking out from his stomach. Tristan stared at the contorting Saxon struggling to stay alive, letting his disgust show, before jerking his sword from his guts and bore down on his throat with the heel of his boot. He watched the Saxon thrash about, trying to ward off his foot, then he sputtered and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth before he stopped breathing.

"Havin' fun?" bellowed Bors as he cantered by, hitting a wandering Saxon on his head with his deadly axe.

Tristan grinned briefly but sobered when he saw a trio of Saxons run towards him. He immediately noted the exceptionally strong-built bodies and newly polished armour, and knew that the fight would not be pretty.

A dagger embedded itself in one of Tristan's targets before he even reached him, and he acknowledged Galahad with a quick nod before meeting another's challenge, evading his forceful thrust with a practiced flick of his sword. He let the Saxon hammer his sword on his, knowing that he would wear out in a matter of moments if he continued to immerse all of his energy in his strokes.

From the corner of his eye, Tristan watched Galahad clash swords with the other Saxon who was inches taller than the boy was. He noted satisfactorily that Galahad had once again improved as he killed off the Saxon with a few quick and precise lashes of his sword. Then he turned back to his enemy, still hacking at his blade mindlessly, and put an end to the nonsense with a swift deflect of his sword and a thrust at his chest.

As he turned away from the dead man to let him crumple to the ground, he thought he saw a flash of gold. A gold so pale that it could have passed as white. But he dismissed it as he engaged himself in another combat.

--------------

Abigail thought she was going to die when the looming Saxon prepared to bring his axe on her skull, and she had closed her eyes, resigned, but never felt the blow strike.

When she opened her eyes again, the menacing shadow was gone, and she spun around to see the bald-headed knight towing the dying man on the blade of his axe. Bors gave her a grim nod before ridding his axe of the Saxon.

Abigail stared at his retreating figure, stunned. Why was Bors here? Was he not supposed to have left? Vanora had told her that they would be leaving at first light, should they not have gone by now?

But then she caught sight of the handsome face of Lancelot vigorously dueling with a Saxon officer of a higher rank, and her heart leapt.

Tristan. He must be here.

She saw him then. It was like watching a dream as he deftly sidestepped a fatal blow of his opponent, and was grace itself as he brandished his sword with the deadly accuracy only he possessed. She had fought him before, so as to speak, and it was terrifying. But watching him was an entirely different matter. It was mesmerizing, entrancing. Abigail did not realize that she was hardly breathing and took in a few hasty gasps when she became short of breath. Her eyes followed his every movement, the clever footwork, the unlikely placidity of his arms, the masked face that would have been enough to unarm a soldier.

She knew not how long had she stood there, but an abrupt blur of movement pulled her out of her trance.

"Tristan!"

--------------

Tristan started at the scream of his name, and he promptly killed the Saxon before whipping around to the cry.

But a sharp pierce hit the left side of his ribs before he could locate the voice, and he fell a step back, swaying with a sudden lightheadedness. He looked down and was not surprised to see an arrow protruding from the source of pain.

He had shot enough arrows to know that this one had sank deep. He slammed his sword into the earth as a means of support as he felt himself falling forward, and he went down onto his knees as the pain began to fan out like poison in blood. His breaths came out in short breaths, laboured and burning. Through the haze now veiling his eyes, he saw a pair of worn boots of animal hide making their way leisurely towards him.

Tristan sucked in a breath as deep as it could be, and forced himself onto his feet, pulling his sword from the ground with trembling hands. He stood as tall as he could, and regarded his assailant coldly. It was a Saxon, grinning like a madman. He stopped two feet from Tristan, and raised his sword in challenge. He mirrored his move, trying to hide the excruciating pain every shift of his muscles gave him.

Tristan did not see him strike, but his instinct saved him. The pain exploded, blinding him for a split second, then he felt an intense pain in his thigh, and he stumbled as it gave way under his weight.

He vaguely remembered hearing a dynamic clanging of metal as he rolled onto his back, specks of dark gradually dotting his vision, his breath becoming shorter with every attempt to take air into his deprived lungs, and his consciousness fogging.

Then he felt a pair of hands on his face, and they felt so soft and gentle. A long lost sense of serenity descended onto him, and he slowly closed his eyes.

"Tristan. Stay with me. Tristan-"

_I could not stay_, he told the tender voice. Darkness shrouded his sight, and the burning of his lungs was replaced by a soothing coolness. Was this death? It felt good. It was as if he had slipped into the comforting depths of the sea as noises faded into silence, and the last of the light petered out. He let out a sigh and sank deeper into the water, finding peace as he let oblivion take him.

--------------

Free Kleenex tissues as promised!

My first battle scene. And I'm proud of it -grins-

How was it?

As a reminder, Tristan's fate is in my hands. -grins crookedly-

_-flashes to scene with Tristan bounded like a mummy on a chair in a black, empty room. An empty pizza box is seen under the chair. The scene turns black completely, then the spotlight turns on again with the pizza box gone.-_

Ahem. Stupid backstage people._ Anyways_, be nice and comment on this chapter! I need spiritual support! Seriously! It's my first battle scene after all. And I wrote nine pages! collective gasp I reeeaaally want to know whether I did a wondrous or monstrous job. And remember the position Tristan is in… -evil crackles-

I'm sorry it took me nearly two weeks to update, but I had to write till that point and I couldn't find time until today. Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter, I really appreciate them! I'll try my hardest to update sooner this time! Hugs and kisses to all my readers and reviewers!

P.S. IT'S THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER:D


	21. Hope

Chapter 21: Hope

"Tristan," Abigail called again, biting her lips to hold back the tears on the brim of her eyes. "Tristan, stay with me."

Tristan laid on the ground, his eyes closed, and his face was going cold under her palms. He was hardly breathing, after sucking in sharp and short intakes of air in his oblivion, his breaths seemed to have ceased altogether at the other.

Forcing herself to stay calm, she took out a dagger and began sawing at the protruding end of the arrow with trembling hands, as close to the armour as she could manage, as she had seen the Saxon healer do once. She tried to ignore the sticky blood that clung to her trembling fingers as she worked, and held the arrow as still as possible so it would not pierce him further. She did not know how deep the wound was, but it looked grave enough.

She breathed a small sigh of relief when the top of the arrow came off, then she undid the clasps of his armour, and lifted the metal off his torso. Blood glistened on the rings of the chainmail he was wearing underneath, and under that, it was seeping through his thin tunic, forming a ring of scarlet around the arrow. She dared not pull the arrow out, he might die of blood loss that way. He needed a healer.

Abigail tried to stand up, but her knees were weak and fell back down onto the grey earth. She was exhausted. The thought of lying down next to the unconscious scout was tempting, to just close her eyes and let go. It would be so easy-

"Tristan!"

The coarse voice jerked Abigail out of her trance, and turned her head. For once, she was glad to see the disheveled face of Gawain.

She forced herself up on shaky feet, and said, "Sir, Tristan needs-"

She barely had time to register surprise before she was knocked off her feet as sharp ache hit her jaw. It took her a moment to regain her bearings, and when her eyes were clear of the sudden dizziness, Gawain had struck her in her shoulder, leaving a numb patch where his fist landed.

"Wasn't Dagonet enough?" Gawain yelled crudely at her hunching figure. "Did you have to kill Tristan too?"

He turned to walk to Tristan, and with a growl and sudden fierceness, Abigail leapt at his back. Her fingers grabbed hold of his unruly hair as she dragged him around and hit him in the nose. She heard the fragile bones crack under her knuckles, and was peculiarly satisfied to see blood trickling from his nostrils. She pushed him to the side before he had a chance to react.

"Don't touch him!" she screamed hysterically, having no control of her voice or emotions as she felt warm moisture rolling down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees and felt the dam break. Choking and gasping for breath, she reached for Tristan's face. "Don't touch him."

Gawain looked down at Tristan and the sobbing girl, then his eyes alit on the left side of Tristan's abdomen. Comprehension dawned on him as he took in the severed arrow, the unclasped armour and the chainmail. Wordlessly, he bent down and grasped the girl's shoulder. Her glare was just as piercing through her thick tears, and Gawain gently helped her to her feet.

"He needs a healer," said Gawain softly, still holding her forearms.

She was bewildered, frightened. He understood how she felt. He still remembered his first battle- the fear and confusion. He would have gone mad if not for his brothers who were there with him.

But she had no one- and Gawain would have let it be that way. He hated her, yes, but the naked fear in her face evoked pity in him. So he shook her gently, and she jumped at the sudden movement.

Gawain stared at her sternly, and said, "You have to help me take him to the horse."

She nodded immediately, and between them, they managed to haul the injured knight to Gawain's steed, who stood calmly as they heaved him into the saddle.

"You do not have armour?" asked Gawain as he passed his eyes over her shabby form.

"No," she replied quietly. "I'll take Tristan's."

Gawain nodded in approval, then gathered up the reins. "Take the chainmail, it's lighter. Stay alert, and don't let your mind stray," he lectured as he began to pull away.

"Yes," she said firmly, and watched Tristan disappeared into a black sea of soldiers, limp as a rag doll.

She hated seeing him that way- so vulnerable- _dying_.

The same heartbreak she had experienced a year ago tore at her again, and she steeled herself, picking up the abandoned chainmail. Her fingers, coated with grime, brushed the wet rings, painted with blood. Tristan's blood. She lifted the metal piece over her head, and her heart began to beat faster, knowing that she had one more person to avenge for.

--------------

Arthur slit another Saxon's throat with more force than necessary, then pushed the revolting corpse to the ground. He took a moment to wipe the sweat and filth from his eyes, then turned in a slow circle to survey the battle.

His strategies worked. Thousands of dead soldiers littered the field, mostly Saxons- the two armies were about even-numbered now. It was well after noon, and the fighting was still vicious. Metal clanged upon metal, screams of death and triumph were heard across the field.

"Arthur!"

He turned at the sound of his name, and smiled when he saw Jols canter by on a handsome stallion, wielding the sword he gave him at the wall that morning.

Good old Jols, he deserved to be more than a squire. Arthur made a mental note to promote him when the battle was won.

Now, the task at hand was to find the commander of the Saxons. He had been hiding well, Arthur thought wryly. But the battle was starting to dwindle, and he would have to entertain his presence sooner or later.

An exceptionally agonizing scream filled his ears, and he whipped around at the familiar voice. He watched in dread as Jols fell from his horse, and was immediately beheaded by a dirty, scruffy man swinging a large broadsword.

Cerdic.

Arthur gritted his teeth to stop the trembling sorrow for his loyal squire from penetrating through his heart. His grip tightened instinctively on the warm hilt of Excalibur, his eyes trained at his advancing enemy, his mind bent on one thing.

Revenge.

--------------

The Saxon fell onto his knees with a howl of pain, desperately clutching the arm that was no longer there. Arthur, panting heavily, grabbed Cerdic's hair and pulled his head back so that he was looking down at him straight in the eye, and pointed the deadly tip of Excalibur at his throat.

"As promised, I am the last thing you see on Earth," hissed Arthur, his teeth grinding.

Cerdic did not answer, but glared at him with stubborn resolve. Arthur inhaled and pulled his sword back, ready to plunge the blade into the Saxon's black heart.

"Wait!"

He did not, but a sword deflected his stroke at the nick of time. He looked up and saw the British girl.

The Traitor.

"Am I supposed to fight you?" asked Arthur grimly, holding his sword loosely.

She shook her head, all the while eyeing Cerdic in disdain.

"I have unfinished business with him," she said quietly.

Arthur looked over at Cerdic, who had a crooked grin plastered on his bloodied face.

"Yes," he croaked, his breath shallow. "We have unfinished business."

--------------

Abigail's heart beat violently against her ribcage, so violently that it almost hurt. Her knuckles were white from gripping her sword hard, and her jaw ached from holding back the anger that simmered inside her.

He dared to grin at her.

Her eyes followed the trail of blood that spurted from where his arm should have been to see the severed limb. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Good. She wanted to see him tortured, go through the excruciating pain she had gone through. Better still, she wanted him to rot to death, let falcons peck away at his infected flesh, hear his dying screams-

Abigail shook herself. _Do not let your mind stray_, she repeated Gawain's words to herself. She immediately raised her sword and aimed it at Cerdic's neck, then slowly- dauntingly- she walked around him.

"What do you want, girl?" Cerdic broke the menacing silence, his voice conveying pain and impatience. "You're in the way of the battle."

"I want you to suffer," she replied honestly with an air of calmness she did not expect. "I want you to pay for the deaths you caused."

"Ah, playing the honourable heroine, are we?" Cerdic managed a strangled laugh before sneering at her. "There's no honour among traitors and murderers."

Abigail pressed the blade to his neck angrily, wrath lacing her words. "You _made_ me a traitor. You _made_ me a murderer."

"It's not the time to evade responsibility, my dear," said Cerdic mockingly. "I gave you a choice."

She wavered, and seeing it, he pressed on, his voice low. "You're a coward, my dear girl."

Humiliation flooded her, and she stiffened at the heat that was rising to her cheeks. He was right. Tristan was right. A coward. That was what she was. A worthless, pitiable coward.

She thought of all the children, mothers, fathers who had been slaughtered. All of them innocent- payment for every breath she drew.

"You know I'm right," continued Cerdic.

"No, you're not," Abigail shook her head briskly, swallowing back guilty tears. "You are the sinner."

"We are all sinners," he countered quietly, almost inaudibly. "But sinners can be great people, as well."

Abigail stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

"There are many ways to achieve greatness, and not all are righteous. But it is right as long as it _is_ achieved," answered Cerdic smoothly, his eyes locked with hers.

"What do you mean?" she asked shakily.

"I will not last, and my son is a failure," Cerdic near-whispered. "But you, my dear girl, you have skill. You can lead my army. You can continue my campaign. Glory can be yours."

"No-" Abigail started to back off, but Cerdic's remaining arm shot out to hold her.

"Think of what will be yours," he growled. "Land, wealth, power-"

"No!" shrieked Abigail, her thoughts incoherent as the half-mad man clung to her. "Let me go!"

"Coward!" Cerdic screamed at her. "The weak should not live-"

From the corner of her eye, Abigail thought she caught a metallic glint. There was a earsplitting clang as her sword caught the dagger Cerdic made to stab her with, sending it revolving through the air. Without hesitation, Abigail swung the sword back straight at his neck, separating his head from his body.

She fell into a heap and began vomiting as the fresh scent of blood reached her nose. She leaned on her sword as her stomach emptied itself, and tried in vain to erase Cerdic's words from her head.

"He was insane," she said to herself.

"Are you alright?"

Abigail wiped the vomit from her mouth and looked up to a concerned Arthur, who looked indifferent to Cerdic's death. She nodded slightly, then ventured a glance at the gory mess.

"You don't believe him, do you?" he asked gently.

Abigail was surprised at his mildness towards her, and she shook her head unfalteringly.

Arthur smiled softly, then looked up towards the heavens. "The battle is won."

Abigail followed his gaze, and saw a pillar of sunlight break through the thinning grey clouds.

"Arthur!" cried a boisterous voice that could only belong to one person. "RUUUUS!"

The victorious thrust their swords into the air, the wind carrying their triumphant voices far beyond Hadrian's Wall. And when the sun showed its face for the first time in days, Abigail closed her eyes and let the warm rays caress her cheeks.

She knew then that she was at peace- with herself, with the world. When she opened her eyes again, she felt a swell in her heart that was comforting and promising- hope.

--------------

It had been a week since the victory at Badon Hill, and the people were trying their best to pick up the threads of their old lives to sew together the little town again. Many fell in the battle, and there was much mourning and tears shed, but amidst the despair was hope- and it was growing by the day when brave warriors were buried ceremoniously, when widows dried their tears and when the separated were united with their families.

The wounded were housed at anywhere possible, from cottages of villagers who knew the arts of healing, to the Roman stone castle where the gravely injured were fighting for their lives- not by sword, but through herbs and magic of the Woads.

The hem of a thick black cloak barely brushed the cold stone floor as the figure enveloped in it walked soundlessly down the corridor of the castle, its head down and pace quick. The feet stopped at a wooden door, and a hand emerged from the black fabric, gently pushing the door open.

The door merely yawned lazily on its hinges as it clicked shut, and the person swept back the hood, revealing a tired, pale face.

Abigail crossed the floor silently, her eyes a mixture of blue and orange as warm flames snapped up solid wood blocks like twigs in the fireplace. Kneeling beside the bed, she gazed at Tristan's sleeping form.

He had not woken nor shown any signs that he would in the near future. His breathing was occasionally laboured, the healers could do nothing but treat his wounds to the best of their knowledge.

Her eyes fell on a large gash on his left jaw, and she gently traced its immaculate stitches, recalling the same stitches he had administered on her arm- not two weeks ago.

Her fingers moved to caress his face, savouring the canvas-like roughness, tracing his tattoo, and stroke his bearded chin. They ghosted over his lips- chapped, split.

A few drops of perspiration caught her eye, and noting a bowl of water, Abigail walked to the table in the corner. Having wrung water from the towel, she gently wiped the sweat away from his feverish face, and brushed aside the black strands of hair from his brow.

Once again settling on the floor, she wondered if he would ever wake from this slumber. Her hand found his, and she entwined her fingers with his. His hand was hot with fever, but Abigail feared that a few days later it might be cold with death.

Still holding his hand, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. There was no heat, no passion, but there was longing and hope.

Running her fingers down the side of his face once more, she stood up and replaced her hood over her head. Without turning back, she left the room and walked hastily out of the building and into the night.

Breamas carried his mistress to the top of Badon Hill, his head held high as Abigail looked back at the fort where she had died and was reborn. The handsome steed tossed his head and snorted, anxious to leave.

She patted Breamas' neck softly, then whispered to the strong night breeze, "Goodbye."

--------------

YO! AND IT IS FINISHED!

_-wails and sobs from the authoress while silent scout looks on mercilessly…-_

GOTCHA:D

Hell, no! This story is not finished yet! The "Angst" part is, but not the "Romance"… -wink-

Major angst, huh? Not much to say except apologies once again for taking so long to update. It's difficult when you've got three stories in progress, a lazy big butt, and a party to host tomorrow.

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'll get back to my lovely reviewers very soon, thank you so much for your support! –gives out Tristan cupcakes-

Oh my God. I just found out that one of my classmates' sister died yesterday. Oh my God. I'm shocked. They don't know why she died yet, but I knew her and she was a sweet girl though annoying sometimes… oh God. I can't believe it. This is so unbelievable. R.I.P.


	22. Promise

Chapter 22: Promise

Translucent waves with tinges of blue and green lapped lazily on the rocky beach nestled against the steep cliff above which the grand fortress of Camelot stood majestically, overlooking the calm sea stretching into the golden horizon. Seagulls winged above the sparkling water illuminated by the late afternoon sun, their feathers a rich bronze in the warm light.

An ocean breeze sighed, riding the waves, and swept up the strong outer stone walls of the citadel. Its cool fingers ran through delicate, newly grown leaves on trees returned from long slumber in the past winter, snaking their way through supple blades of grass and blooming flowers, over freshly paved and winding paths, and merely teased a handful of unruly braids before fading out.

Skilled fingers deftly notched a brand new arrow to its place on a beautifully crafted bow, its faded coat of tan giving its age away. Its string protested quietly as it was stretched backwards, the arrowhead slowly adjusted to the left, then to the right, before it settled aiming at a precise dot on the target nailed to a tree a few yards away.

Hearing a faint thud, Tristan lowered his bow and removed the blindfold from his eyes. He awarded himself a fleeting lopsided smirk, then lowered his trusted weapon onto the stone bench that was planted next to him.

He glanced about the empty training grounds- it was a lush location, hidden in the depths of the castle, away from the bustle of town. Tall trees adorned the grassy grounds, along with wooden targets and modern stone and metal devices.

Beyond the line of targets was the soothing picture of the ocean, and Tristan could occasionally see its glint winking at him. His keen ears could hear the serene, lulling rhythm of the waves rolling onto the sandy beach which could only be reached by climbing through a tangle of trees and bushes. It was seldom visited, as the people preferred the larger beach around the bend that could be reached with less difficulty.

Tristan liked that beach. He often went there on quiet evenings, with a tankard of ale if the occasion required, and just stared out at the dark waters perched on one of the sturdy rocks on the shore. He found solace there, and he liked it.

Life at Camelot was much quieter, too quiet for his liking. It was a peaceful time, and Arthur did not send them on missions unless they were troublesome affairs- which were, both fortunately and unfortunately, few in number.

Still lost in his thoughts, Tristan made his way to the target, plucking the arrows from the board and gathering them in one hand.

He was lucky to have survived, he thought wryly. It was more than a year since the battle at Badon Hill, and only six months since he had fully recovered. Apparently, he was the only one among the six knights to have been gravely injured, he had been unconscious for three weeks before he awoke.

Merlin had attended to his health for nearly a year before he released him from his attention, teaching him how to breathe again as his left lung had been punctured slightly. It had healed itself, but Tristan had to be careful lest it broke down again. Other than that, all he had left of that battle were new scars, including one that now embellished his left jaw.

He really had been fortunate- Jols had died bravely in the field that day, and his body had been burnt, with his ashes taken by the wind. It was a sorrowful occasion. Jols had always been more than a squire, but a friend and brother as well who had followed them since their arrival at Badon Hill till his last breath.

Tristan stared at the arrows in his hands and thought pensively that Jols had always made the best arrows.

His ears suddenly picked up a soft whistle, and dove out of the way just in time as an arrow embedded itself in the bull's eye, which would have been his heart if he did not hear it coming. Drawing his dagger from his boot, he silently surveyed the deadly still yard for a movement, a sound, a sign of his assailant.

There was a rustle of grass and Tristan let his dagger fly towards the noise, there was a yelp, a thump and a clear thud. Galahad emerged from the trees a moment later, enraged.

"What the hell did you think you were doing man!" the young knight yelled crossly, the offensive dagger in hand. "If you wanted to kill me, you just had to ask!"

"Thought you were something else," shrugged Tristan apologetically.

"Yeah, and what would that happen to be? Me?" asked Galahad sarcastically, tossing the weapon back to its master. "I'm convinced you got knocked heavily on your head."

"A year and a half ago?" asked Tristan with a rare touch of humour, sheathing his dagger.

"It's not funny," retorted Galahad. "I would've been killed if not for my phenomenal instincts."

Tristan snorted, then turned to the arrow. For the first time, he noticed a drab of skin pinned to the board by the head of the arrow. Frowning, he tugged it free and let it fall open, revealing a few scribbled words.

"What's that?" asked Galahad curiously, moving closer.

"_I shall see you at the ball."_

Galahad laughed instantly at the words, and slapped Tristan good-naturedly on his back. "Really, Tristan, you should open your eyes and see all the beautiful ladies staring at you at the tavern instead of hiding at that little beach. At least take one of them with you if you must."

The scout shook his head and tucked the skin into a pocket, then pulled the arrow out and examined it. It was one of the ones he had been practising with. Glancing over his shoulder at the bench, he noted that his bow was on the ground.

"Oh, Guinevere calls for us to ready for the ball," said Galahad, suddenly remembering his purpose of seeking Tristan out. "And Vanora is going to kill us if we don't get there in ten minutes."

Tristan smirked and nodded. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

After Galahad was out of sight, the perplexed knight pulled the scrap of deerskin from his pocket, and read the note again, something distant stirring in his head.

"_I shall see you at the ball."_

"So be it," he murmured to himself and hurriedly left for the castle to avoid Vanora's wrath.

--------------

"Oh, sir, isn't this ball _wonderful_?" breathed the lady- a duchess, if his memory served him well- with an air of excitement, her bright green eyes staring at him expectantly.

"Indeed," replied Tristan woodenly. He wondered idly if she really was so excited that she could not breathe, or whether it was the tight dress that took her breath away.

In truth, the ball had been far from wonderful- as far as his opinion went. It was held in celebration of the king and queen's first anniversary, and it would have been a merry affair if Her Majesty had not made sure that each knight did not have to suffer a moment's loneliness, and better still, that they did not even need to think of leaving the ballroom at all.

As Tristan blocked the rest of what the lady had to say to him, he looked around the crowded dance floor. Arthur and Guinevere were not far away, swaying to the joyous music happily, laughing and talking over the sweet notes of the instruments. Bors and Vanora were dutifully knocking people off their feet as they swirled exuberantly in the crowd, earning both glares and laughs. Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad were all enjoying themselves. In fact, everyone seemed to be having a good time- save for the brooding scout.

His thoughts drifted to the note, which was tucked safely under the new blue tunic Vanora had picked out for him. _I shall see you at the ball_.

"It was lovely having danced with you, sir," the lady said with a brilliant smile on her face.

Tristan turned to her abruptly, noticing the music had stopped, and managed a stiff, formal smile. "The pleasure was all mine," he replied obligingly with a bow.

"Tristan!"

The said knight recognized Guinevere's smooth voice at once, and turned to greet the queen, who, he noticed somewhat dejectedly, was dragging yet another young lady towards him.

"This is Vevina," gushes Guinevere, her cheeks rosy from dancing. "She's just come to Camelot."

Tristan stared at the woman, his mind paralyzed for a short moment as he took in the mane of blonde hair which awoke something dormant in his memory. But being Tristan, he composed himself before anything showed, and brought Lady Vevina's hand to his lips.

"My lady," he murmured against her knuckles.

"My lord," she replied courteously, curtseying gracefully.

"Do enjoy yourselves," said Guinevere animatedly as another song started. "This song is my absolute favourite! Arthur?"

Neither said much as they moved to the slow and romantic music, as both seemed reluctant to strike up any decent conversation. Tristan watched the lady wordlessly, all the while thinking how he could have mistaken her for someone else. Vevina's porcelain face spoke plainly of her high birth, and her hair was of a richer colour. She was also what one would call dainty- elegant, beautiful, small- like a glass doll.

But _her_, she was nothing like Vevina. Tristan's face darkened. What had become of her? Had she survived winter in the wilderness? Had she found her way back home?

He had thought of her, but stopped when he realized that she was gone.

His rational self knew very well that he would never see her again.

But why did the message keep leading up to one woman alone?

--------------

Abigail retreated to the shadowy window seat of the ballroom, fanning herself with a smile on her flushed face. The splendid green dress that Guinevere loaned her swished softly as she settled herself on the comfortable cushions to rest her tired feet and watch the dancing crowd.

Vanora had not recognized her when she approached her earlier that day at the town's largest inn, cradling a newborn child in her arms while bossing her husband around at the entrance of the newly built, two-storey house.

"Good morning," Vanora had greeted her with a rather forced smile. "Can I help you?"

Abigail smiled at the flustered redhead before saying, "Where may I find Guinevere?"

"Guinevere? The Queen?" Vanora arced an eyebrow before scrutinizing at her face. "What business do you have with Her Majesty?"

"I have travelled far to meet with her, please, tell me where I may find her," said Abigail earnestly.

Vanora gave her one more hard stare before saying "very well", and shouted for her lover to take the child.

The Queen was supervising the preparations of the ball in the grand hall, bustling around with the vigor of a child, tasting cakes, reorganizing chairs, giving orders. Abigail took a look at the Woad, then at the frantic servants desperate to please their mistress, and smiled as she thought of their last meeting- there was good reason to fear a warrior woman trying her hand in domestic affairs.

Vanora walked straight up to her, and they exchanged quiet words before Guinevere looked up and gestured Abigail to approach.

She bowed her head and murmured, "Your majesty."

"You have demanded to see me?" asked Guinevere, her voice mellow with regality.

"Yes," replied Abigail, lifting her head. "I have come to find if one lives or the worst has happened."

The Queen stared at her with a faint frown, then asked, "Who?"

Abigail swallowed nervously, then, looking at her in the eye, uttered the name that she had kept to herself the past year, "Tristan."

The rest, as they say, was history. Abigail was knocked off her feet by a screaming Guinevere, and after being assured that Tristan was alive and well, she was whisked off to a flurry of baths, fittings, and even cakes and a bit of wine. It had taken more than a clever plan and a quiet pair of feet to escape the room Guinevere had shut her in, but Abigail managed to slip into the gardens after some trouble in the kitchen distracted the Queen's attention.

It was chance that took her to the archery grounds, and she for once, she was not bitter towards its doings.

Abigail could not describe the feeling of seeing him again, breathing, standing tall, doing what he did best. It was a numbing moment of overwhelming joy and gratefulness, and she had stood rooted to the ground, watching him shoot arrow after arrow, each hitting the bull's eye, each hitting her heart- the dull thuds clashing with her thundering heartbeats.

When she noticed the blindfold around his eyes, a plan invented itself in her head. She grinned at the mischief of it all. She was proud of the fact that she had caught him off guard with that arrow, and the scene that followed had nearly been her death. Abigail twisted a strand of hair around her finger distractedly and thought with a rather melancholic smile that it was a story her family would have enjoyed.

She shook her head and searched the multitude of ladies and lords, finally resting on the familiar face. He was dancing with a lovely lady, his lips set in a firm line, a slight crease on his brow. That was all it took to revive the smile on her lips. Did he not know how to charm a lady?

Sir Lancelot undoubtedly did. He had asked her for a dance earlier on, to her utter disbelief. Did he really not recognize her, or was he putting up a show?

She touched her face instinctively, and wondered if she had changed that much. Her hair was shorter, it hardly swept the small of her back, and her skin was not as fair as she spent much of her time at the Southern shore where the Sun preferred showing his face. She deemed that her hands were more calloused as well, but Lancelot made no comment on that. Surely he must have noticed?

Would Tristan know her then? Would he look past her as if she was naught but air? Did he remember her at all?

She brought her hand to the scar on her right arm, covered by the sleeve of the dress. She remembered. She had remembered all this time. What if he did not?

Then, his eyes found hers across the hall.

Her doubts were wiped away in an instant as he stopped in his steps, his dark stare smothering even from where he was.

Abigail smiled, drew her cloak around her, and stepped out of the ballroom.

--------------

It was her. It was _her_.

His eyes followed her out of the hall, and, releasing Vevina's arms, he traced her steps to the threshold.

He had the urge to run, to run like he had never run before, to run like a predator after its kill. But he fought the impulse and calmly walked to the door leading to the gardens, where he stopped and scanned the darkness.

A glimpse of silver materialized then vanished around a corner, and Tristan followed, knowing a stranger to the castle would not easily find his way around the maze of marble statues and tall bushes.

Flickers of silver were his trail as he walked almost leisurely after his prey, the full moon casting an ethereal glow on the stone ground over which his booted feet passed soundlessly.

Then, he heard panicked, frenzied footsteps, and the scout smirked as he knew his prey was trapped. There were hasty brushes of leaves, snapping twigs and a muffled shriek.

He stopped in front of the little forest barricading the populace from his exclusive piece of nature. Tonight he had a guest.

And for once, he did not mind.

--------------

Abigail recoiled as yet another branch threatened to break her skin, barely retaining the exasperated sigh as she stamped her foot into the wet earth. Why _did_ she come into this forest? She could hardly see, stumbling blindly over stones that dug uncomfortably into her silk slippers, and leaves rubbed against her skin, leaving dots of moist dirt on her exposed arms.

The forest was eerily quiet, but she knew he was here. He had been extremely quiet, but still, her ears picked up the almost inaudible scrapes as he trailed after her.

She cursed under her breath as she bumped into the rough bark of a tree, and turned around wildly, searching for her sense of direction that had faded in the darkness.

She released a frustrated sigh. It was no use- all she saw were branches and silhouettes of trees.

She screamed as she was grabbed from behind, arms on her waist dragging her backwards. Somehow, she managed to slip past the obstructions, and took flight without missing a beat. And she saw it- light! A hole in the line of trees!

She broke out of the forest with an inescapable laugh, the moonlight brighter than it had ever seemed to her. An ocean breeze greeted her and tangled with her hair, and she welcomed it with closed eyes.

Over her own footfall she heard sand shifting behind her. Her eyes snapped open, but did not turn round. She hitched her dress higher in her hands and ran as fast as her sore feet would take her.

The roar of the waves had never sounded so beautiful as she ran along its silver border, laughing again as she heard him getting closer, and closer-

She let out a yelp as she tumbled over her own feet and onto the fine sand, falling onto her back gracelessly. She managed a choked chuckle of mirth before she collapsed into gasps for air, panting heavily.

She stared at the cerulean night sky as she caught her breath, running her eyes over the specks of gold and silver. She raked her fingers through the velvety grains of sand and sighed at the perfection of the night.

"So beautiful," she whispered, her soft voice washed away by the rolling waves.

He had not spoken yet, and she said loud enough for him to hear, "Would you not even check if I am alive?"

"I can see you breathing," came the faint reply.

Abigail grinned and sat up, shaking the sand out of her hair. And for the first time in one and a half years, she looked at him- in the eye.

They were silent as they regarded each other, her grin faded into a small smile, and his face solemn as always.

"I'm afraid I cannot walk, sir knight," Abigail softly broke the silence.

Tristan did not reply, and when she thought he had not heard her, he moved forward and knelt down in front of her, their eyes locked all the while.

"I'm afraid I'd have to carry you, then," he replied.

"Yes, I'm a_fraid_ so," added Abigail in mock distress. She swore that she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes.

--------------

Abigail woke with a jolt as she felt her back making contact with a yielding surface, but kept her eyelids sealed as she was lowered onto what she assumed was a bed, letting different sensations flood her bleary mind. She listened to the tap of boots on wood, then stifled by –most probably- rugs. There was a swish of water, and a clink of glass on hard surface.

Such deliciously homely sounds.

Her eyes fluttered open to a carpeted ceiling, shadows dancing across the fine stitches in an orange glow. She turned and was met with a lively fire in a marble fireplace a few feet away across a breathtaking rug.

Abigail shuffled forward, leaning over the edge of the spacious daybed draped with delicate silken blankets and cushions to take a closer look at the stunning craftsmanship sewn into the rich fabric.

"Impressive," she thought aloud.

"I thought you were asleep."

She looked up and watched Tristan approach with a small basin in his hands and a towel hanging from his arm. There was a sweet scent of ointment and she shuffled to make space for him.

"I woke up," she stated matter-of-factly, propping up a cushion to lean against. "What's that?" She gestured to the bowl which he laid on the carpeted floor.

"Not gin, I assure you," he answered with a dash of wry humour.

A laugh slipped past her guard and she said, "No need for disinfection, obviously."

Tristan made no response, but sat down at the end of the bed and slipped off her shoes, tossing them to one side.

"Which ankle?" he asked, looking very interested in the state of her feet.

"The left one," she replied. "It feels sprained."

He kicked off his worn boots, then wet the towel with the liquid in the bowl. Sinuously, he climbed onto the bed and arranged his long limbs so that he was sitting easily, then very deftly placed her left foot on his knee.

"I can't remember you being so gentle," Abigail commented idly, her eyes following his every move.

He shrugged, and squeezed the towel so her ankle was moist with a pungent ointment mixed with warm water. He started massaging the blend into her skin soothingly, his calloused fingers drawing circles on her skin.

"People change, I suppose," he said slowly, almost uncertainly.

Abigail nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose so-"

He touched a particularly sensitive spot, and a shiver travelled through her body. She was sure that he noticed, though he made no indication. Nothing ever escaped his eyes.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," said Abigail in a near-whisper, afraid that he would hear the tremor in her voice.

He stopped, but his hands lingered on her ankle. Warm from both the fire and his unwavering gaze, she unclasped her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders.

"You're a good actress," he remarked dryly, pulling back- much to her dismay.

"I did not act," protested Abigail, feigning a look of innocence. "It _did_ hurt- until now."

Tristan smirked. "A sprained ankle should be nothing when compared to what you've went through."

Her lips curled upwards mirthlessly. "Thanks to you."

He widened his eyes in pretended shock, then sobered. "May I see it?"

Abigail cocked her head in question. "What?" He motioned at her arm. "Oh." She paused, then nodded.

Her skin warmed as he sidled to her right side, the heat and exhilaration of being near to him taking its toll. She bunched up the silk sleeve so that he could see the remains of the wound that had brought them together so long ago.

"I had hoped that it would leave no scar," he murmured.

Abigail looked down at the scar as well. It was a beautiful arc, like the elegant curve of a new moon. It had faded to a dull brown, but it would always be there. A permanent mark.

"It's not so bad," she said with a shrug, letting the sleeve fall back to place.

His hand shot out, and he folded the sleeve up so it was held in place. Then, ever so softly, he traced the scar slowly, his finger invoking a deep tremble within her.

"I'm sorry, Abigail," he said and brought his lips to blemish, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.

She breathed in sharply, shivering as he took his assault upward, his nose pushing aside the fabric to plant a kiss on her shoulder.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she responded, her mind hazy with the intimacy she had longed for.

He leaned back against the wall, and pulled her to him so that she was straddling him. She sighed contently as he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her securely. He stroked her cheek tenderly as she linked her hands at the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry for letting you go," he said solemnly, his eyes so dark that Abigail thought she could drown it their intensity. "It was foolish of me."

She shook her head firmly. "It was my decision. You did nothing wrong."

He was quiet for a moment or two, then he leant in and asked, "Why did you come back, Abigail?"

She shook her head, then bent over and pressed her lips to his. This time, he reacted without hesitation, parting her lips skillfully and delved into her soft mouth. All the lost months, all the time apart was made up as their passion and desire molded into the kiss. She kissed him fervently, venting the sorrow of missing him, the bliss of being with him. She gasped as a hand slid down her thigh, stroking the unexposed flesh, making her short of breath.

"Tristan," she broke away, struggling to breathe.

He buried his face in her neck and ran his tongue over the hot skin, and she clutched his shoulders weakly, drunken in the dizzying sensations.

"Abigail," he hissed into her ear, placing a kiss on her earlobe before nibbling on it. He then withdrew and studied her, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Abigail smiled at him, then leant forward and lightly kissed him. Toying with his lower lip, her fingers fiddled with the hem of his tunic, then pulled it over his head.

"What are you doing?" he asked with a lopsided smile, pulling her towards him and kissing her collarbone.

She grinned impishly and teasingly slid a hand down his muscled chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart under her palm. His lips caught her in a gentle kiss as she continued to feel her way down, until her fingertips touched a rough mass of lines.

Their lips separated as she continued to caress the rough scars, and she felt a choke in her throat. She lifted her eyes to his, who were watching her inquisitively.

"I didn't know if you would live," she whispered, palming his rough cheek. "You didn't wake up for days."

"You were there?" asked Tristan, perplexed.

She nodded. "I found you."

"They did not tell me," he said with a cross scowl.

"Only Gawain knew, I asked him not to tell you," she explained in Gawain's defence.

"Why?"

A single word that triggered a thousand feelings. She attempted to answer, but the words would not come to her.

"I didn't know," she answered honestly with a sad smile. "I still don't know. I suppose I didn't know what would happen."

Tristan nodded, then took her hand and kissed her palm. "It matters not."

"I'm glad you're alive, though," she commented with a teasing grin.

He chuckled, a deep sound vibrating in his chest. He kissed her jaw and leant back, a true smile adorning his lips. "You've changed."

"So have you," quipped Abigail. "You're smiling."

"Then we'll have to learn about each other all over again, won't we?" he asked, rubbing her knee nonchalantly.

"That's a good idea," she beamed, propping her elbows on his shoulders and intertwining her fingers with his hair lazily.

"Shall we start with what you have done in the past year," he suggested against her lips, sliding his tongue across her lower lip.

Abigail moaned and pouted at him. He merely arced an eyebrow and kissed her cheek apologetically.

"I went home," she replied to his question, an affectionate smile on her lips.

"Home?"

She nodded, and rolled off him so that they laid side by side. Tristan snaked an arm around her middle and she shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

"What's it like?" he asked quietly, pulling a blanket over them.

"Why don't you see it for yourself?" she replied, tilting her head so that he could see her smile.

"I think I will," he said, running the back of his hand down her cheek.

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes," he said firmly, and kissed her languidly. "It's a promise."

--------------

-tear- And they're back together.

Yes, this fic is drawing to an end. One more chapter and it's over –bursts into strangled sobs- Omg I can't believe it. Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapters, you guys! And thank you for those who added The Traitor to your favourites list! 40 of you! I can't believe it! I love you all!

Well, I'm not sure about this chapter. It took me a long time because I didn't want to split it and I wanted it perfect, but it turned out that I don't have enough time to go through every detail of it… I hope it's alright though!

Anyways, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! I don't have a date, but well, it wasn't too bad lol. I hope those who have dates will have/have had a great time!

Again, a big THANK YOU and chocolate banana walnut brownies to you all! (I made chocolate banana walnut muffins at school today, yummy!) You have no idea how much your reviews mean to me! And thank you to everyone who has followed this fic so far!

And oh, I'm glad my false "IT'S FINISHED" sign actually scared some of you –crackles evilly- Lol, I'm just plain evil! I'll reply to your reviews tomorrow- it's already ten and I have to go to bed! Good night everyone! And I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	23. Alive Again

Chapter 23: Alive Again

Abigail idly drew circles in the sand with a dead branch she picked up on the way to the beach that morning, shrinking the circle until she was drilling on one spot in the sand before widening it again. Subconsciously, she repeated the routine as she stared out at the colouring horizon from her seat on the silky sand, her dress just warm enough to keep out the chill of first light.

She watched as Breamas pranced smartly in the rolling waves, tossing his head and whinnying as the waters hit his legs. She laughed as the black stallion saw a tide coming and cantered urgently towards shore just in time to escape its assault. Triumphantly, he reared up on his hind legs and shook his thick neck of mane proudly.

"Breamas," she called, and the horse looked up at the sound of his name, but defiantly stayed where he was, staring at Abigail inquisitively.

"Come, Breamas," she beckoned, and the black beauty snorted as if irritated, then tucked his head in and cantered to his mistress's side.

"Good boy," cooed Abigail as she rubbed his nose affectionately. He snorted again and shook his head, then nudged her none too gently. She laughed and waved him off, to which he delightfully obliged, bolting out to the sea again, as if chasing the waves.

She sighed and tossed the stick aside, then leant back on her elbows, her eyes on the burning sky. Several gulls had assembled and began their daily flight, circling above the water for fish. She giggled as she watched Breamas' plan of ensnaring a gull backfired, and the stallion had resorted to fleeing the scene as a small army of birds drove the much larger animal away.

The first ray of light broke out of the dark line from which the sun was rising, and she had to angle her head to the side to keep the searing light from her eyes. She felt the warmth build up on her skin as pillars of sunbeams followed, marking the beginning of yet another day.

On a normal day, a couple of fishing boats would be on the sea by now, swaying ever so gently on the calm bay which was bordered by lush green clumps of forests. But today, the cove was empty save for the dancing shadow of Breamas. She thought it odd, as the village was monotony itself. But all the same, she savoured the solitude that was scarce in the small village- even at the break of dawn.

She allowed herself a few more minute's of luxury of watching the sun's slow, tedious climb and listening to the calming tides, then she pushed herself up and brushed the sand off her bottom, stretching her stiff arms and yawned as habit required. She gazed at the rising sun somewhat wistfully, knowing that she could stay at the beach for a whole day but also the fact that she could not.

Lamenting the impossibility of remaining by the sea, Abigail picked up the coil of rope she brought Breamas to the beach with and whistled loudly.

"Breamas!" she shouted to the horse who stood in the shallows, his neck bent as he examined something of his interest in the water. "Breamas! It's time to leave!"

The said stallion merely looked up at Abigail briefly as if in annoyance, then lowered his head again, submerging his nose. Shaking her head, Abigail gathered her dress in her hands and walked into the waves, and she shuddered at the sudden coolness. Her breath hitched at the exhilaration of the washing tide, and her smile widened to a spirited grin.

"Now, what has our hero found?" cooed Abigail as she approached Breamas, who swung his head side to side, then dipped his head and pushed a large white seashell into sight.

"Oh my," she laughed and picked the peculiarly shaped shell up. "It's beautiful."

Breamas snorted proudly, then brought his nose to the shell and sniffed at it, inspecting it. Abruptly losing interest, he snorted again and trotted off.

Abigail did not stop him, being fascinated by the pearly white shell in her hand. It was shaped like a cocoon with a few curling tendrils stretching from its body in a flaunting display, its surface polished by years past in the ocean. Mesmerized, Abigail ran her fingers over the smooth, unflawed shell, and she found herself wondering how long this seashell had stumbled on the seabed of the ocean before finding its way ashore?

Pressing the hollow of the seashell to her ear, Abigail closed her eyes as echoes of the ocean rushed from its void. Waves crushed around her, tides swished around her feet, mournful cries of foreign sea creatures enveloped her. A sigh slipped past her lips as she let the overwhelming sounds of the ever-changing sea bewitch her.

Suddenly aware of the red behind her eyelids turning black and sensing a presence in front of her, she smiled and said quietly, "A few more moments, Breamas."

Just then, Abigail heard her stallion's domineering whinny- faint and distant.

Her eyes snapped open to an orange sea in front of her. Frowning, she lowered her hand holding the shell to her ear and turned to see Breamas flouncing in the turning waves at the other end of the beach. Yet she was certain- _almost_ certain- that there was someone, _something_ right in front of her just now-

"Village life has unceremoniously dulled your senses."

Abigail could not help a startled gasp and dropped both the helm of her dress and the seashell as she spun around to the voice, her hands flew to her chest, and her heart beat wildly against her palm.

As quick her panic had come it subsided, yielding to bewilderment as she stared at the familiar face a few paces from her, his shoulders slightly slouched as always, the sun drenching his shaggy mane of hair.

Not a heartbeat later she was aloft, spinning, in his arms.

--------------

Her cottage rested on a low flat-topped hill, surrounded by quaint gardens blooming with flowers and buds. They reached the small house by a secluded grassy path from the beach, and she proposed a change of clothes before proceeding to the stables to deposit her devil of a horse.

The backdoor creaked in welcome and an aroma of freshly baked bread lured them into a small but orderly kitchen.

"Have a seat," she said merrily and pulled out a chair from under a rectangular table that guarded the mouth of the kitchen.

"I'm fine," he declined with an appropriate smile.

She nodded and disappeared into one of the two doors on the left side of the room, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the wooden floor.

"Have you just arrived?" she asked as she emerged from the room.

Tristan nodded. "At the crack of dawn."

"Are you all staying at the boarding house?" she asked before entering the second doorway.

"Yes," he answered. "There are fortunately enough rooms."

After a triumphant "ah-ha!" she reappeared clutching a black tunic and breeches.

"I meant to return them to you," she said with a grin. "You'd better change, you're soaked."

He nodded again, taking the clothes, deliberately brushing his fingers against hers. The faintest hint of colour that surfaced on her pale face did not escape his gaze.

"We should hurry, the King and Queen are waiting," he told her.

Abigail's eyes widened at his words. "What? Guinevere's here?"

Tristan's lips twitched. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked in exasperation, but she was grinning in delight.

"You did not ask," he replied matter-of-factly.

She laughed and skipped into the second room, shutting the door, then opening it again.

"You can change in there," she pointed to the door next to hers with a grin.

Tristan obliged, and when he had changed into the dry clothes supplied by Abigail, he reentered the main room of the cottage and found it empty. Typical of women, he thought wryly.

Abigail burst from the room clad in a white dress while he was looking out a window facing the village, and as she neared, he instantly recognized it.

"You still have this dress?" asked Tristan.

"Hmm?" her eyebrows went up in question.

"Do you not remember?" he gestured to her dress.

"_Oh_," her face lit in comprehension. "Yes. I'll never dream of disposing of it. Give me a few more moments."

He smirked as she skipped into her room once more. He let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. It had been too long.

"I've been meaning to ask- why _are_ you here?" Abigail asked as she strutted out again, two or three books in her hands.

Tristan regarded her with a teasing smirk. "Does my presence displease you so?"

"You have no idea _how_ much," she retorted playfully. "But really, what brings the royal court to our humble village?"

"The northern part of Arthur's kingdom is a blank," explained Tristan honestly. "We are here to put the villages on the map."

Abigail cocked her head to one side. "Mmm, I see. Nothing else?"

Tristan shook his head, and he could see the disappointment in her face. Before he could speak, she had tied up the books in a cloth together with a few apples and was opening the door.

"I have some business to tend to," she said plainly, her warmth veiled. "But I'll accompany you to the boarding house. I look forward to seeing the Queen."

Reaching over, Tristan pushed the door close ahead of her, and took the load from her hands.

"Not before you answer me one question," he said softly, his eyes on hers as his free hand curled around her waist.

She stiffened and asked, "What?"

He laid the package carefully on the floor then tilted her head upwards. Gently he pressed his lips to hers, relishing the sensations that coursed through his veins as he tasted her soft lips, and he felt her guard break down. It _had_ been too long.

"Abigail," he sighed against her forehead as they broke away.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss onto his neck. "What?"

He pulled back and looked at her, taking in the contours of her face that he had waited for months to look upon, and smoothed his thumb over the tender skin of her cheek.

"I know your love for your home runs deep," he began somewhat hesitantly. "I understand what home means to a heart, but I must ask you this."

"Ask," she whispered, her fingers starting to massage the back of his neck.

He leant forward and buried his nose in her hair, his lips brushing the skin below her ear before kissing her ear, smiling as he felt her shiver under his touch.

"Will you come with me?" he whispered against the shell of her ear. "To Camelot?"

A few moments of silence passed, and he waited, trying to hide his tension as he stroked her back.

"How long has it been?" her voice interrupted the stillness.

"Five months," he answered, straightening and looking into her eyes again.

A somewhat shy smile alit upon her lips, and she swept his hair to one side tenderly, averting her gaze to the tattoo on his cheekbone.

"Abigail," he said, his eyes searching for hers. "Look at me."

When she did, he took her chin and said slowly, the words tearing at his heart. "You do not have to say yes. But you have to understand one thing," he paused, his grip on her chin extending to cup her cheek. "I love you."

He forgot how to breathe the moment the words left his mouth, and silence had never seemed so ominous as it did now, waiting for her answer, waiting for her to save him- or to destroy him.

She slowly reached for his face, and he closed his eyes at her caress.

"Do you know how long I've waited for today?"

"Since the day you were born?" he asked with a relieved touch of humour as he opened his eyes, smiling.

Abigail laughed, then hit his arm mischievously. "No. Since the moment you said you couldn't save my father from going through the mountains in the south."

A low rumble of laughter sounded from his chest, mingling with hers.

"In that ridiculously thin dress you're wearing now," he added, drawing her closer.

"In the snow," she threw in, her voice shaking with mirth.

"With an outrageous accent-"

"And you turning your back on me-"

"I never did that again, did I?" he asked, kissing her softly.

"You'd better not," she murmured against his lips, savouring the closeness of him. "Because I doubt I could find my way to Camelot alone."

"Why, you are a disgrace to scouts," he said in pretended mockery.

"Which is fortunate that I have one all to myself, correct?" she asked with a grin.

She shrieked in surprise as he hoisted her up all of a sudden, but was silenced by a kiss with mutual passion.

"I love you, too," she said, drunk in happiness, still in his arms.

"I know," he said with a smile, inclining his head upwards to kiss her chin.

"We should go, our King is waiting," said Abigail vaguely without moving.

"They can wait," replied Tristan. "They need to learn how to wait. Patiently."

Abigail laughed. "And we're just the ones to teach them, hmm?"

"Precisely," he said and kissed her neck, then looked up into the eyes that had once been dead but now twinkled with life renewed. "And I am glad that I am not the student."

The End 

--------------

I can't believe this. I can't believe this. I really, really can't.

This is the end of the journey of Abigail and Tristan. Finally.

Oh gosh, I'm so emotional right now. This is the first long story I've _ever_ completed. And I never would have been able to without my lovely reviewers and readers, do you know how much your words encourage me? I want to thank everyone who has followed this story all along, your support has been essential in times both easy and difficult for me in writing this story.

I would like to thank a few of my readers in particular:

KnightMaiden, greenDayzIdiot for being faithful reviewers not only in this story, but also in my others. :)

MedievalWarriorPrincess for always cracking me up and sending Gawain and Galahad over when I'm stuck in my writing :)

ButterflyKisses26 for your support and sensible comments, not to mention for writing a story that I so immensely enjoy :)

Kasora for being such a funky person- I hope your cast is taken off wherever you are!

And really, to everyone who likes this story enough to put it on your favourite stories list: ALL 50 OF YOU! You guys are awesome! You have no idea how encouraging it is to know that this story is a favourite among FIFTY writers on a note, I apologize for the delay in the uploading of this chapter. I wanted the ending to be perfect, and I know this is far from perfect, but I am satisfied with it. I hope you all enjoyed this last chapter, and I hope that though this story is finished, you will sometimes reread it and still enjoy it!

Lastly, there will be no sequel. I leave Abigail and Tristan's future to your imaginations, and I hope you foresee a happy one for them!

Do I have anything else to say except thank you once again, now that I'm closing a door on this story? I wish all writers luck and joy when creating stories of your own, because only now do I understand the happiness and pride of finishing one after all the hard work put into it.

Happy writing, everyone! And goodbye!


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